


The Real Thing

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, reference to child abuse (physical), reference to domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3333005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday, 30th September 2011

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is taking a ridiculously long time to write, given how little of it there is, I'm posting it in chapters,
> 
> Anyone who thinks they see the odd nod to Arthur Conon Doyle's Sherlock is probably correct.
> 
> Please note there are brief references to physical abuse of a child and domestic abuse - don't read if these might be trigger for you.

　

The silence between Mycroft and himself was more comfortable than Lestrade had dared hope - not that he'd imagined he would be driving home with Mycroft when he got up this morning. The easy part was the driving - putting the pieces back together, not so much.

Lestrade sighed and tried to give all his concentration to the road, while wishing he hadn't smoked his last cigarette during the drive down to Chislehurst. He fidgeted irritably with his tie. Enough was enough. This time he'd stop smoking for good.

　

　

Mycroft watched the subtle changes in Lestrade's body language without surprise. Of course he was angry. Anyone would be. He just wished he knew what to say: 'I'm sorry' didn't quite cover it. Nothing was adequate, given what he had knowingly done. And, if he was honest, would do again in similar circumstances. Which Gregory needed to know, because if he didn't admit that then they started with a lie and -

Exhaustion dragging at him, Mycroft tried to stop thinking altogether as he checked his jacket pocket for cigarettes, only to remember he hadn't smoked since the accident. He'd been smoking when there'd been a crack, followed by a rumbling roar, before the world had turned on its side in a jumble of confusion and terror.

After a few minutes Mycroft regained control of his breathing. He hadn't appreciated what 'flashback' entailed until he'd experienced his first one. Of course, it hadn't been raining out there. Sweat clammy on his skin, he watched the wipers try to keep up with the volume of water dashing against the windscreen, remembering how, when it had shattered, fragments of glass had even found their way inside his underwear.

He returned to the present when he became aware of movement beside him as Lestrade switched on the heater and demister, before tugging his tie free and stuffing it in a pocket, with no regard for the cut of his jacket. He must have gone to some trouble to acquire that outfit in such a short space of time. Wary of breaking the silence, Mycroft kept himself centred by concentrating on the man beside him, accustoming himself to the stern-faced stranger with cropped hair and a close-trimmed beard.

Visibility was poor considering the early hour, purple-black clouds and driving rain making Mycroft grateful for his dry haven. Disorientated by the headlights of oncoming traffic winking at him, he blinked at the distorted halos of gold; light-headed from lack of food and pain, everything began to assume a surreal quality. He concentrated on watching Lestrade, hoping that this time he was real.

　

　

As they drew closer to the outskirts of London, congested traffic slowed them to a crawl; Lestrade glanced at his companion. Disconcerted to discover he was under surveillance, he blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

"I've just realised - it's gone lunchtime. Are you hungry?"

Mycroft gave an involuntary grimace of revulsion.

"Nor, me." Lestrade motioned for a car stuck in a side street to pull out ahead of them. "It occurred to me that if I go to my flat I could pack and not need to return there. Shall I drop you off first?"

"I would rather accompany you." Mycroft's soft-voiced courtesy failed to hide his steely determination that they shouldn't be parted.

"Right. Good," added Lestrade, but his smile was strained, his voice tight with tension. "I'd best give security the address so they can check it out."

Mycroft fumbled for his phone, spoke briefly into it, before handing it to Lestrade.

Lestrade blinked in surprise, Mycroft's phone having always been off-limits, before he thought to give the required information and returned the phone to its owner.

"While the area looks a bit run-down, it's a decent community," he said. "Almost a village feel."

"It isn't an area of London I know," said Mycroft, all his years of effortless small-talk abandoning him.

They maintained a limping conversation as Lestrade double-parked outside his flat, after receiving the all-clear from security.

Mycroft made a less than graceful exit from the car, his balance affected by his immobilised right arm. Lestrade stifled the urge to help him, wary of making things worse.

"The flat's on the third floor," he said apologetically. He gestured for Mycroft to go first, so that if he slipped he would have a soft landing.

While Mycroft climbed the first flight with every appearance of ease, by the third he was sweating and the hand not in a splint was visibly unsteady.

The security woman outside the flat - another stranger to Lestrade - nodded, then closed the front door as they went inside, giving them some much needed privacy.

Because he had no idea what to say that wouldn't sound like an accusation, Lestrade muttered something incomprehensible and filled the kettle with water.

Frozen in the centre of what was obviously the main living space - far smaller than his dressing room at Guardian House - Mycroft gained an insight into Gregory's mood during the last six months. Apart from an angular sofa, the only other items were a small table, a lamp, and a new laptop. There were no soft furnishings, the cheap laminate floor scuffed and chipped, the windows bare of even a blind. But everywhere smelled of cleaning products and was spotless, the few items on the kitchen counter lined up with mathematical precision - a sure sign of Gregory's distress. In times of emotional turmoil he cleaned and tidied to excess, as if by so doing he could bring order to his emotional life.

"Tea?" said Lestrade, making Mycroft jump.

"Thank you," he said.

"It's only PG Tips," Lestrade warned, taking two cheap mugs from a wall cupboard that was at least thirty years out of date.

"Inevitably." Mycroft ventured a small smile.

Lestrade's face relaxed into a more familiar grin. "Yeah. Would you prefer a glass of milk? There's plenty."

Mycroft nodded, and they sipped their respective drinks while Lestrade emptied the refrigerator of perishable items, and left the bag at the door to take down to the refuse bin. He collected up his laptop and phone recharger, together with a familiar fire-proof box file that had always contained his personal papers and set them on the table, before glancing around.

"That's everything in here. I should make a start on my clothes," he said.

The relief that Gregory hadn't changed his mind was so great that Mycroft sagged where he stood propped against the support of the wall. "How may I help?" He felt as though he was tiptoeing through a verbal minefield, imminent explosion only a hair's-breadth away.

"No need. I've had plenty of practice at packing." As he realised how that could be interpreted, Lestrade looked up with a grimace. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. Come through. Have you taken any painkillers recently?"

Mycroft accepted that it had been optimistic to hope Gregory wouldn't notice. "Paracetamol. I react badly to most of the others. It's fine," he dismissed.

Lestrade closed his opening mouth, obviously thinking the better of what he had been about to say, picked up the roll of black plastic sacks he had taken from a kitchen drawer, and ushered Mycroft into the bedroom.

There was just room for a Queen Ann sized bed, with a cheap chest of drawers and a number of hangers holding jackets and trousers balanced precariously over the top of the door. The Venetian blind at the window must have come with the flat because it certainly wouldn't have been Gregory's choice - he just hadn't cared enough to replace it. But there wasn't a speck of dust to be seen on the plastic strips.

It was then that Mycroft noticed the only ornament in the room - the die-cast model of an Aston Martin, which he had ordered while they were on the island. The one gift Gregory seemed to treasure above all others. The only unnecessary item he had taken when he left.

He touched it with a careful finger. Lost to memories, both sweet and unbearable, it was some time before Mycroft appreciated that all movement had stopped. He looked up to see Lestrade holding a pair of jeans and a faded blue Wallace and Gromit sweatshirt defensively to his chest.

"I can't stand this straight jacket any longer." Lestrade gestured to the suit, before retreating into the bathroom to change.

Mycroft stared at the space he had occupied with dawning despair. He hadn't expected that... Hadn't expected...

He sank onto the bed, exhaustion challenging his fragile emotional control. Easing his legs onto the bed, he leant back against a wall painted a shade that Gregory called 'institutional' - a chilly pale blue lacking warmth or subtlety of tone. Gregory hadn't cared enough to paint over it. Not even during the months of his suspension...

Mycroft closed his eyes in a moment of despair. It had never occurred to him that they would be so awkward with one another. Words were his tool of choice and here he was, as inarticulate as...

　

　

Self-conscious about his retreat, Lestrade strode back into the bedroom with assumed confidence, only to stop dead when he saw the sleeper.

In the six months they had been apart Mycroft had lost some hair and acquired new lines on his face. The skin beneath his eyes was shadowed violet, and his eyelids had an almost translucent look. Mycroft twitched as he slept and Lestrade's unwary heart twisted.

He had wanted them back together so much but it was dawning on him that it might not be that simple. For one thing they seemed to have forgotten how to talk to one another. Though the fact Mycroft was running on empty probably wasn't helping.

One thought leading to another, Lestrade went into the living room for his phone. He wasn't surprised to find Mycroft and Moneypenny's numbers reinstated, but instead of David's number, there was Fatima's - not the way she would have wanted promotion. Because Moneypenny hadn't been at the funeral, he called Fatima.

"It's Lestrade. Is Mycroft supposed to be on medication?"

"He's supposed to be back in the Clinic by now," she said with a tartness which imperfectly concealed her concern.

"He didn't say."

"It wasn't likely he would, was it." It was the closest Fatima had ever come to discussing his relationship with Mycroft.

"I suppose it wasn't," conceded Lestrade absently. "I'll take him to the Clinic when he wakes up."

"Gregory?"

Lestrade glanced up to see a drowsy looking Mycroft listing slightly where he stood in the doorway. "Change of plan, Fatima, himself has woken up. We'll be there in half an hour or so." He rang off and studied Mycroft in more detail.

"Come on, let's get you seen to," he said gently. "And don't waste your breath saying you're fine."

　

　

Once at the Clinic, Lestrade swallowed his surprise when Mycroft made no objection when he followed him into the examination room.

"Are you sure?" murmured Lestrade, while Bond busied himself at a trolley on the other side of the room.

"I'm positive. If I've learned anything during our months apart it's that there have been too many secrets. That will change - except where national security is concerned." Mycroft's eyes never left Lestrade's face, trying to fathom his mood and thoughts. "Will that be enough?"

Not sure what he was being told, beyond the obvious, Lestrade shrugged. "We'll see. You should sit down. You look dreadful."

"I'm sore and I'm tired. Nothing else."

"Then I may as well go home," said Bond dryly, as he arrived in time to hear Mycroft's reassurance.

"Do I have you permission to speak freely in front of DI Lestrade?" he added more formally.

"Full disclosure," said Mycroft, with a faint grimace.

"I thought that must hurt to say," interjected Lestrade, and he sounded so wonderfully familiar in that moment that Mycroft gave an involuntary grin.

It faded the moment he began to undress.

Frozen to the spot, Lestrade winced before Mycroft did as items of clothing were dispensed with. Mycroft's torso was scattered with angry-looking wounds caused by glass from the shattered windscreen, together with an ugly gash down one side that looked older, and more serious.

"Who attacked you?" asked Lestrade, when he trusted his voice.

"It was an accident," said Mycroft, without interest.

"Someone accidentally slashed you with a knife?" Lestrade stood over him, his disbelief obvious.

"It was a swordstick," said Bond, his expression intent as he examined Mycroft's shoulder.

His eyes wide, Lestrade stared at Mycroft. "How did you accidentally slice open your side with the swordstick I bought you?"

"Give me some credit. It was John Watson."

Lestrade face wiped clean of expression. "Ah," he said vaguely.

Because Bond had begun to manipulate his shoulder, Mycroft was too busy trying to be stoic to spot the warning signs.

By the end of the examination Lestrade was almost as pale as Mycroft.

Their escape from the Clinic was delayed when Bond learned that neither of them had eaten that day. They were taken to a room that obviously functioned as a staff dining room and were swiftly served.

Lestrade poked without enthusiasm at the wing of skate, with mashed potatoes and suspiciously vivid green peas. "I thought the food would be better than in a National Health hospital."

"It is," said Mycroft, "just not inspired. This would be improved by some capers."

"No ketchup," said Lestrade sadly, and had the satisfaction of watching Mycroft's face relax into a smile.

"Or brown sauce," said Mycroft.

But when they began to eat they realised how hungry they were, managing cheese and biscuits and some fruit afterwards.

Armed with a list of Mycroft's injuries, medication, treatment and appointments for check-ups and physiotherapy, Lestrade drove them to Guardian House.

"Will there be any supplies?" he thought to ask, as they pulled up outside the house.

"I doubt it. Perhaps we should stay at a hotel tonight," said Mycroft with obvious reluctance. "I have no idea what state the house will be in. I left Sherlock and John here, after meeting Sherlock's plane. I hadn't anticipated having to fly out to the Afghan/Pakistan border within the first few minutes of arriving here."

It was the third time Mycroft had freely offered information but Lestrade hardly noticed, haunted by the image of Mycroft lunging to save David as his door opened over the ravine. Mycroft had dislocated his shoulder in the process, ripped open that wound in his side, and all while maintaining a grip on David's body so fierce that he had torn the tendons in his hand - while staring into the abyss which could have swallowed them up at any moment. And it was all very well for Bond to say the risk of permanent injury was slight, but he couldn't shake off the fear that dust from the shattered windscreen might have caused lasting damage to Mycroft's lungs.

"Gregory?"

Lestrade refocused to find Mycroft watching him with some anxiety. He slipped the key from the ignition and opened the car door before a thought occurred to him. "Do you have a key to the house? I'll open up."

"I left it here."

"Then how are we going to get in? I left mine here when I left," Lestrade reminded him.

The muscles around Mycroft's eyes and mouth tightened. "I hadn't forgotten." He abruptly left the car and, as Lestrade hurried over to him, tried the front door, which swung open with an oiled ease.

"The advantage of having a security detail." Mycroft ignored the rain soaking him and gestured for Lestrade to go in first. It hadn't escaped his notice that they had yet to touch, even by accident; Gregory had seen to that.

Once in the dry, Lestrade became aware of just how wet and cold he had become in a matter of seconds. He nodded an acknowledgement to the security man who had ferried in his belongings and with a pointed 'Bye,' closed and secured the front door behind him.

It was difficult to remember he had once thought of this place as home. It didn't even smell right - though it had to be admitted, it was spotlessly clean.

"Thank goodness someone thought to switch on the central heating." Lestrade knew he was babbling as he eased Mycroft out of his wet jacket, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"It is cold, considering it isn't even October," agreed Mycroft. There was safety in platitudes.

Lestrade slung the damp jacket of his suit over a hook on the hatstand, and correctly interpreting Mycroft's horrified glance said: "It doesn't matter, I don't intend to wear this suit again. It'll always be linked to - "

"David's funeral." Mycroft suddenly looked very tired. "I'd almost forgotten it was only this morning."

"It's been a long, stressful day. Let's go upstairs. Tea?" Lestrade was reduced to adding.

"Please."

Lestrade entered the kitchen, paused and gave Mycroft a puzzled look. "I thought you said Sherlock had been staying here. The place is immaculate."

"Yes," said Mycroft, turning to study the family room. "Not at all how I left it. Perhaps John? Though it's difficult to credit that even he could persuade Sherlock to clean."

"I'm not so sure," said Lestrade slowly. "John might have told him to imagine he had to destroy all evidence that he'd been there - as if the house was a crime scene."

"Oh, that would work," conceded Mycroft. "Particularly as I imagine Sherlock is desperate to placate John."

"Sit. I'll see to the tea," said Lestrade briskly. Far better to keep busy than worry about why he and Mycroft seemed less able to communicate now than they had outside the church.

The kitchen was cleaned to a standard to which even Annie would have approved. He said as much, adding: "I suppose there's no chance she and Len are back yet?"

"None," said Mycroft, visibly tensing. "Though her sister has made an excellent recovery. There was talk of her returning to the UK with her family - too many unhappy memories out there. However when I rang Annie and Len - to apologise for allowing them to hear of Sherlock's survival through the press - "

" - the same as the rest of us." An edge had returned to Lestrade's voice. "I take it they weren't thrilled either."

"Annie couldn't stop crying - a mixture of relief that Sherlock was alive, and the fact I'd lied to her. Len took over the call. He...disowned me," said Mycroft, in the bored, superior tone he used at times of deep emotional pain.

Lestrade winced. "He'll come round," he said, after a moment.

"No, I don't believe he will. It's the hurt to Annie he won't be able to forgive." Mycroft looked up then, staring at Lestrade as the reality of what he had done to those he loved sank home with renewed ferocity.

The conversation staggered to a halt again.

Lestrade slumped onto a chair on the opposite side of the table from Mycroft as abruptly as if his legs had been kicked from beneath him. His shoulders hunched, elbows on the table, he linked his fingers over the top of his bowed head, as if trying to hold in all the inconvenient emotions jostling for supremacy.

Frozen in place, Mycroft watched and waited.

When Lestrade eventually straightened, his exhaustion was clear on his haggard face - not that of one night, or two, but, like Mycroft, of days and weeks and months of stress and unhappiness.

"I don't think I can do this after all," Lestrade muttered, looking vulnerable, lost and care-worn.

While it was no more than he had expected by this time, it still shook Mycroft to his core. "Ah," he said, fixing his gaze on his cooling tea. His hands were shaking too much for him to risk trying to drink from it.

"Not us, you pillock," exclaimed Lestrade, in a wonderfully familiar tone that made Mycroft look up, beyond disguising his hope. "Don't you realise? You'd need a crowbar to prise me away from you."

While all Mycroft managed was a winded "Oh," the smile which started in his eyes, lit up the room. "I hoped - That is, I - " He stretched out his uninjured hand, which Lestrade immediately grasped, curling his fingers tightly around Mycroft's.

Lestrade stared at the earnest man, pale with emotional turmoil and physical discomfort, and experienced a surge of love so intense it almost deprived him of breath. He firmly squashed any inclination towards sentimentality and said, "Yes, 'oh'. You can be such a dick."

"I won't attempt to deny it this time." Mycroft raised their joined hands and kissed Lestrade's knuckles without a trace of self-consciousness. "Without you in my life the world felt like an unpeopled wasteland. You're the centre around which everything revolves."

Lestrade's eyes were suddenly over-bright as a rush of emotion swept away long-standing defences. "I'd've said that, if I wasn't an inarticulate copper. Don't look so gob-smacked," he added with an asperity Mycroft found wonderfully cheering after so much soulless courtesy. "You must know you're my...everything. Best friend, lover, partner. You're it with a capital i. I don't know when it happened exactly but I'm not 'me' any more, I'm 'us'."

"But surely... You've been married."

Lestrade shrugged. "There was never this sense of...belonging. Not Julia's fault. Or mine. Like a lot of people we were a make-do couple who hoped for the best. Though I never realised that until the real deal came along. That would be you," he added helpfully.

Mycroft held Lestrade's hand in a grip so tight his fingers began to cramp. "I've nothing with which to compare this, but I felt...incomplete - 'one's not half of two. It's two are halves of one'."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed - and not in a good way. "Hang on, that's a quotation. What'shisname? Cummings. You never use quotations."

Mycroft was so exhausted he had to pause to review the last few moments of their conversation. "Yes. Sorry," he added, because it had obviously been a mistake. Yet again he was beset by the fear that everything which mattered most in his life was trickling away and he had no idea how to stop it.

"You never use quotations. Why now?" pursued Lestrade.

"Because I have no idea what I'm saying," Mycroft confessed. "I'm so afraid of driving you away for good. Loving you isn't enough - "

"It's a bloody good start," murmured Lestrade, irritation falling away like an unwanted coat. He padded over, standing so close they shared body heat, and tweaked gently at the open collar of Mycroft's shirt. "Would it be all right if I kissed you?" he asked in all seriousness.

"It would be perfect," said Mycroft fervently.

Lestrade hesitated for a moment, tilting his head slightly, as if he had forgotten how to fit them together, before his mouth brushed Mycroft's, once, then twice. The third time his tongue tip just touched Mycroft's bottom lip.

Mycroft made an inarticulate sound of need, cupping one side of Lestrade's face with his uninjured hand. Then they were kissing with equal desperation as they tried to bridge the void left by six lonely months.

When they eventually drew apart, Mycroft looked up and with obvious reluctance said: "So when you said you couldn't do this?"

As if unwilling to surrender all points of contact, Lestrade tweaked at the set of Mycroft's sling, before he puffed up his cheeks and slowly exhaled. "I thought I could be grown-up about this. I _know_ you'll have a good reason for what you did, that you wouldn't lightly hurt me. But I've realised I need to know every detail - to sift through the bones. But in the process I'll probably lose it and start shouting and waving my arms about, which would be fine in normal circumstances, but right now you look so damn fragile..."

" _I do not_ ," said Mycroft, visibly revolted by the idea of fragility.

Lestrade's expression further softened. "Yeah, you do. So we'll save all that for another day. Okay?"

Mycroft would have given anything to get it over with, because no matter what Gregory said, he couldn't shake off his fear that he wouldn't be forgiven - even someone has warm-hearted as Gregory must have their limits. But this had to be about what Gregory wanted. Time, finally, to put him first.

He nodded. "Whatever you want," he said huskily, just before he was wrapped in the loving warmth that was Gregory Lestrade.

　

　

Lestrade gave Mycroft a look of exasperation. "The world won't end if you don't take a shower tonight. And don't even bother arguing. There's no way you can manage by yourself. Besides, it'll give me time to find the black sacks and sellotape left over from when you had to cover my shoulder."

The effort of removing his clothing, even with Lestrade's help, had left Mycroft squinting with pain and sweating, although the bout of coughing hadn't helped. It was also intensely humiliating being helped to undress, but while he insisted on putting on his pyjama bottoms himself, he had the sense to realise the jacket was a step too far.

"I don't believe I was nearly sympathetic enough on that occasion," muttered Mycroft.

"You were. Though, as I recall, I was a hell of a lot grumpier."

"Give me time," said Mycroft dryly, swallowing the tablets Lestrade handed him without even bothering to check what they were.

"Hey, I've just realised. We'll have his and his scars - shoulder and side," said Lestrade.

Mycroft gave him the kind of look he usually reserved for Sherlock when he was at his most irritating. Unlike Sherlock, Lestrade just grinned and kissed the corner of Mycroft's mouth.

"I'll get changed before I get you comfortable."

Mycroft blinked, but nodded his acceptance because he had little choice. But it hurt that Gregory didn't feel comfortable naked in front of him.

He bit the bullet. "You don't usually wear anything to bed."

"No," said Lestrade, fidgeting slightly. "It's still a bit chilly."

"Ah," said Mycroft, allowing himself to hope that it might be his slight temperature distorting reality, rather than Gregory - for whatever reason - feeling uncomfortable naked in front of him.

"Right," said Lestrade briskly,"you're the expert in pillow nests. Sit tight. I'll get the spare pillows and you can tell me how to make one. "

 

　

It took some time to get Mycroft propped up in a position of comfort that wouldn't put pressure on his shoulder or side, but they managed it eventually. His head resting just below Mycroft's uninjured shoulder, mindful of the dressing over the cut on his side, Lestrade listened to the rain pounding against the windows. So tired he ached with it, he fought the need for sleep, superstitiously afraid this wasn't real after all. He could feel the side of Mycroft's thumb describing circles on the curve of his biceps and absently-mindedly kissed the first unscarred portion of flesh he could find.

Mycroft twitched.

"You don't like the beard," Lestrade noted into the comfortable silence.

"It isn't that. Only I've never kissed anyone with one before," admitted Mycroft. "It tickled, that's all."

"Yeah? I like the idea of being your first. But I'll shave it off. I miss feeling your skin against mine when we kiss. Now go to sleep. Then I can."

Mycroft craned his neck the better to see Lestrade's expression. "What? Why can't - ? Oh. I thought I was the only one afraid this might not be real - but that's because I hallucinated you while I was at the Clinic."

Lestrade caught his breath on a wince, but had the sense not to say anything because he wasn't convinced Mycroft knew what he had betrayed.

"But you _are_ here, " continued Mycroft, as he stroked Lestrade's shoulder, " - something I doubt I'll ever take for granted again. And, for the avoidance of doubt, you'll need one of your crowbars to get rid of me." He had the satisfaction of feeling Lestrade's mouth curl into a smile against his skin.

As Mycroft caressed Lestrade's cropped hair, the dangers and concerns of the world fell away, insignificant compared to the vastness of what he felt for the man who had been willing to give him another chance. Gregory was so fearless in his affection - or so he had always assumed. But Gregory's haggard, care-worn face was proof he had paid a high price over the last few months.

"What?" mumbled Lestrade, sensing something amiss.

"Nothing. Go to sleep," murmured Mycroft, gently massaging the sub-occipital region of Lestrade's neck with the pad of his thumb.

So Lestrade did, his weight increasing against Mycroft by almost imperceptible degrees.

That he later shocked Mycroft awake, kicking like a dog dreaming of chasing rabbits, seemed almost inevitable. Despite the ferocious ache in his shoulder and the out-of-reach painkillers, Mycroft smiled into the darkness as he lightly stroked the cropped hair. Lestrade's incomprehensible mumbling gradually faded away and he settled back into a quieter sleep without ever waking.

But Mycroft couldn't help worrying about how long it had been since Gregory had enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep.


	2. Saturday, 1st October 2011

Contentment soaking into his bones, Lestrade was tolerant with an increasingly grumpy Mycroft, who didn't take kindly to the fact that, with his dominant hand and arm out of commission, he could neither shave nor shower without assistance.

"It's humiliating," he admitted at last. 

"You daft bugger," said Lestrade fondly. "You helped me. But I suppose that was different?"

Mycroft muttered something even an optimist would have struggled to interpret as agreement.

"I've never seen you grumpy before," Lestrade added, leaning in to switch on the power shower. "It's very reassuring. Now stay still while I can stick on the last bit of tape. I've double-wrapped your arm in a couple of plastic sacks, so it should be waterproof."

"I can take a shower by myself," Mycroft pointed out.

"Okay," said Lestrade, standing back.

Mycroft unfastened the bottoms of his pyjamas, and stepped out of the puddle of silk and into the shower.

It was only when he stood under the powerful spray of water that he admitted this might not have been a good idea. The noise of the water hitting the plastic was disconcerting and where it landed on skin, its force sprang small hurts back to life. The cubicle could have comfortably held eight people but for the first time it seemed too large. Disorientated and unsteady, he gripped the soap dish.

There was a hint of cooler air as the cubicle door opened, Lestrade standing in front of him, naked except for his watch and an I-told-you-so expression.

Mycroft could only stare at his fantasy made flesh with helpless longing.

"Mycroft."

He blinked and regrouped. "My apologies. I was preoccupied."

"With not falling over by the look of you."

"Only partly. I'd forgotten how beautiful you are."

Lestrade swallowed and gave an embarrassed shrug. "Well, I'm glad you think so. Love is obviously blind. Look, I know you wanted to do this yourself, but you'd be doing me a favour."

Mycroft's snort of disbelief carried above the sound of the shower.

"I'm serious. It's been so bloody long since I've touched anyone. And this is you. I want to start making up for lost time," said Lestrade steadily. While not directly under the fall of water, the spray left droplets running down his face like tears, sparkling on his beginning-to-flatten body hair. 

A complicated series of expressions flitted across Mycroft's face. "Gregory, I - That is - I doubt if I'll be able to - " 

Lestrade's face lit with a mixture of amusement and affection. "I'm bloody sure we won't be having sex the state you're in. I'd just like to shower with you. For now. These last six months I've been so touch-starved I had to resist the temptation to bump into people."

Mycroft had forgotten Lestrade's habit of dragging into the light subjects other people tried to pretend didn't exist. "I shook hands more than usual," he offered, a wry twist to his mouth.

"Well, even now we can do better than that," murmured Lestrade, leaning forward to kiss the side of Mycroft's mouth. He reached for the container of shampoo. "Hair first. Close your eyes and keep hold of me for support."

The sweetness of the smile he received made Lestrade grip the soft container so hard that a third of the contents shot out between them.

"Well, at least we know the hair on your chest will be super-soft," he said brightly, trying not to notice the last of the shampoo gliding through Mycroft's pubic hair.

Mycroft was watching the glorious sight of Gregory getting hard - because of him. "Are you sure you don't want sex in the shower?" he said, touching Lestrade with a gentle finger. 

Lestrade's cock twitched towards him.

"Pass me the lotion," murmured Mycroft, nuzzling Lestrade's ear. "This much isn't beyond me."

"Why? Oh. Um. Okay. If you're sure." 

Lestrade's ability for coherent speech slid away as Mycroft drew him round, so that his back was plastered against Mycroft. At first Lestrade tried to watch that elegant, long-fingered hand sliding slickly up and down his cock, leisurely at first, thumb nail offering a hint of sensation to the head. But it became difficult to concentrate on anything but the gravelly voice murmuring in his ear and the pull of pleasure streaking up through him, reducing him to one word sentences until he shuddered and came.

 

His expression of blissed-out idiocy slow to fade, Lestrade felt the half-hard cock behind him and slid round with a grin of delight. "You are glad to see me."

Mycroft gave a soft, satisfied huff of amusement. "I'm starting to believe you could raise the dead."

"Don't even joke about that," Lestrade said, suddenly fierce. "We came too close. 

"Your shoulder's giving you gyp," he recognised, in an abrupt change of subject. "Did I jolt it?"

Mycroft just grinned. "It was worth it."

Which left Lestrade with no option but to kiss him.

"Damn, I'm turning pruney," he noted. "Hand me the shampoo."

"You dropped it."

"No one likes a smart arse." As he rose with the container in his hand, he paused to kiss Mycroft's cock. "Definitely promising."

"Maybe tomorrow." 

Mycroft bent his head but instead of a quick wash found himself receiving a scalp massage. He gave a soft moan that made Lestrade give a satisfied grin.

As the last of the conditioner was rinsed away, Mycroft raised his face to the flow of water, allowing it to flood over his face and down the exposed line of his throat.

Soap-slick hands travelled gently over him, cleansing and caressing his scarred torso. From behind his ears, down his throat, biceps, arm and hand, then his armpit, before Lestrade soaped his chest, belly and groin, then eased him around to repeat the process down his back and buttocks, before crouching to wash his legs and feet.

"You don't have to," he murmured, but the protest was half-hearted, not least because this was obviously no penance for the man lavishing such care on him. And all he could think was that he was again covered in Gregory's fingerprints.

"Oh, hush," said Lestrade, soaping between Mycroft's toes. "I'm almost done. Wash my back for me when I'm done?"

 

Warm, dry and casually dressed, Mycroft lounged on the chaise in his dressing room, watching Lestrade's preparations. He sighed his appreciation when a hot, damp towel was held to his stubble.

Lestrade studied the relaxed face trustingly raised to receive the razor. "You might have the decency to look apprehensive," he complained.

"I used up my full allotment of fear when you removed the sticky tape." Despite himself, Mycroft eased open shirt buttons to rub at a now bald portion of his chest.

"As I remember, you thought I was making a fuss about nothing when it happened to me," Lestrade pointed out, before he bent to mouth the spot. "You realise it's in the shape of an L?"

Mycroft gave a small private smile.

"Now, sit tight, close your eyes and pray my hand doesn't shake," instructed Lestrade, who was beginning to have doubts about his ability as a barber.

"It isn't a cut-throat," said Mycroft tranquilly.

But he obediently closed his eyes, listening to all the small clues, just before he smelled his favourite shaving foam. Unable to resist, he opened his eyes to watch Lestrade's absorbed expression as he massaged the warm slickness into his stubble before he began to shave him. Diffident at first, Lestrade soon gained in confidence.

It was a more intimate experience than Mycroft had expected, Gregory so close that their breath mingled, his fingers gently turning his face first one way, then another.

The only sounds were the rasp of the razor blade over his stubble and the occasional splash of water, just before Lestrade's stomach growled.

"Sorry. I'm hungry," he said.

"So am I," realised Mycroft, surprised. He gave a murmur of appreciation as moisturiser eased the tight feeling of his skin. "It's a pity we don't have any food."

"We should have something by now. I called Fatima and conned her into buying us some emergency rations."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "And you're still alive to tell the tale?"

"I know. She must have mellowed."

Mycroft snorted. "If it makes you happy to think so." 

Lestrade shrugged out of his dressing gown, pulled on a pair of 501s, and looked round in case he'd left a top here.

"Take one of my shirts," suggested Mycroft as casually as he could.

Undeceived, Lestrade just smiled and did as Mycroft suggested. The pale silvery-blue Mycroft picked out for him was so flattering that even he noticed.

"All right," sighed Lestrade, as if Mycroft had spoken. "You can come shopping with me when I need new clothes. After all, you're the one who has to look at me. Now, let's eat."

 

"Fatima knows more about my food preferences than I realised," mused Lestrade, as he finished the last of the pear.

"You mean you requested porridge?"

"Don't start," said Lestrade mildly. "It's good for you. The dietician gave me a sheet."

"Oh God," said Mycroft with gloom.

"You're due at the Clinic for the first round of physio. on your hand in fifty minutes. After I've driven you there I thought I'd nip off to do a proper shop, and meet you back here," Lestrade, ultra-casual.

Even with interruptions, Mycroft had enjoyed his best night's sleep for months, and so was alert enough to recognise the half-truth. He had the sense not to pursue the point. "Good idea," he said peaceably.

"Are these new guys going to be your permanent security?" asked Lestrade, as he loaded the dishwasher.

"Some of them possibly. They're on trial. Why?"

"The bloke in the red tie spent too much time looking at you rather than his surroundings. I made him jump, for christ's sake!"

"Ah." Mycroft smoothed the hair on the back of his head. "I should have noticed."

"Course you should. There's nothing like two lots of major surgery in four days, a raging fever and - "

"You've made your point. I'll call Balasha," said Mycroft with resignation.

 

Lestrade left Mycroft in the tender clutches of the medical staff and drove to Baker Street, taking advantage of the diplomatic plates to park on the double yellow line. It was a Saturday, and, as he had anticipated, while Mrs Hudson was up, John was still in his pyjamas and Sherlock was just emerging from the bathroom, trying his dressing gown.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock said, betrayed into open surprise, quickly followed by concern. "You've news of - " His eyes narrowed as he assessed the other man. "Ah. Yes. He's all right then." 

 

 

"Morning, Greg." Watson's smile faded when he saw the inimical expression on Lestrade's face. "What's up?" he asked, abruptly awake.

"If Mycroft's 'all right' it's no thanks to you. I hear you stabbed Mycroft with a swordstick," said Lestrade, ignoring a more conventional greeting. 

"It was an accident," dismissed Watson, He turned away to fill the kettle.

That righteous tone, devoid of regret, was the last straw. Lestrade crowded in on him, using his advantage of height and weight, as he so rarely did. "I'm sure it was all very amusing." While he hadn't raised his voice, the roughened note was its own warning. "Hurt Mycroft again and I'll come for you, clear?"

"You can't arrest John," dismissed Sherlock.

Lestrade spared him a hard-eyed glance. "Who said anything about arresting him?"

Watson, who had been staring at Lestrade, more in puzzlement than concern, suddenly widened his eyes, his expression undergoing a ludicrous change. "Hang on, so you and Mycroft really are - ?"

"None of your business. Are we clear?" Lestrade added.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Sherlock, but he drifted over to them, ready to intervene. "You're obviously back with the fat lump."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed.

"As if I'd let you hurt John," Sherlock continued blithely, oblivious to the signs Watson was now taking seriously.

"Sherlock," he warned, abandoning thoughts of tea. 

Lestrade turned his attention back to Sherlock, looking severe and unexpectedly dangerous. "Really? And just how do you imagine you could stop me?"

It was Sherlock's turn to wake up fully. "While I was away I occupied my time studying the various forms of bartitsu." 

When Lestrade's expression made it plain he'd never heard of it, Sherlock began to shift his weight from one foot to the other, moving on the spot; while agile enough, he looked more like a hopeful at an audition for Billy Elliott than a contender in a boxing match.

"Oh, dear God," sighed Lestrade, menace receding by the second. "You reckon? Okay, bring it on," he invited with a beckoning gesture, stepping back so they wouldn't crash into the table. You never knew what Sherlock might be working on and the top looked like the aftermath of a particularly messy traffic accident.

Watson relaxed and went back to making tea.

Sherlock speeded up, the silk of his dressing gown floating around him.

Lestrade gave an unwilling grin. "You aren't safe to be let out alone. Damn it, Sherlock, you'll get yourself killed, prancing around like a big girl's blouse."

"A hundred pounds says I can get you onto the floor." Sherlock's curls were bouncing now, and the exertion had bought a hint of colour to his vampire-pale face.

"Done," said Lestrade promptly.

Watson swung round when he heard a thump immediately afterwards, in time to see Sherlock, backside to the floor, glaring indignantly up at Lestrade.

"I wasn't ready!"

"I'm sure any villain will be happy to give you ample notice." Lestrade rubbed his fingers together. "You owe me a hundred quid. And I don't take cheques."

Sherlock sprang to his feet, remembering just in time not to rub his backside. "John, pay the man," he said, sulky in defeat.

"With what, shirt buttons?" Watson handed Lestrade a cup of tea and pointed to the unopened packet of shortbread biscuits. "You were supposed to go to the cash machine."

"I'll have to owe you," Sherlock told Lestrade with dignity. "Or Mycroft can pay."

"Try again," invited Lestrade, amusement wiped from his face.

Sherlock frowned. "What aren't you telling me?"

"There's an entire universe of things I'm not telling you. You can bring the money with you when you come round to see Mycroft tomorrow."

Sherlock looked blank. "Why would I want to see Mycroft?"

Watson sighed, opened the packet of biscuits and ambled off to his chair.

"I don't give a fuck what you want," said Lestrade, with a vehemence he was slow to control. "He nearly died in a car accident on the Afghan border. He's had two lots of major surgery in four days, a raging temperature thanks to the infection which followed that accident with the swordstick, and he's suffering from mental and physical exhaustion - not least because of the hours spent keeping your skinny arse - "

Sherlock waved aside that irrelevance. "He's in hospital?"

"He left the day of the funeral, though he should have gone back. He has a torn rotator cuff, dislocated shoulder, torn tendons in his right hand, multiple cuts, and lung damage from powdered glass."

"Do you want me to take a look at him?" asked Watson. "Come and sit down, you looked knackered."

"The funeral. It was one of Mycroft's people," said Sherlock.

"David. One of his closest assistants."

Sherlock nodded. "I wondered why you had a new suit. It was a great improvement on what you usually wear. Why does Mycroft want to see me?"

Lestrade barely noted the insult. "He hasn't said that he does. But he's low in spirits and he missed you like hell when you were away."

"He missed you more," said Sherlock, without resentment.

Lestrade's expression closed. "My relationship with Mycroft isn't open for discussion. Christ, Sherlock, do you hate him this much? Len and Annie disowned him, thanks to you springing back into the spotlight when you were asked to keep out of the public eye. Mycroft doesn't ask much of you, and you couldn't even manage one phone call to them. Well, two, because I would have preferred to hear it from you rather than being door-stepped by the Daily Mail."

"We meant to call," said John apologetically, "but what with one thing - " his gaze strayed to Sherlock " - and another - "

"I forgot," interrupted Sherlock, with a trace of defiance.

"Of course you did. It wasn't about you," said Lestrade.

"You are back with Mycroft?"

"Were else would I be?" snapped Lestrade, before he held up one hand. "No, don't answer that."

"Where did you learn that move?" asked Sherlock, sidetracked. "It's not in the police training manual."

Lestrade shrugged. "I spent some of my formative years living on the streets. And, while it's hard to imagine now, I was a pretty kid. I had to learn how to keep safe. Only on the street I'd've dislocated the guy's thumb and broken at least one of his fingers. It hurts like fuck, so makes a good distraction. Time to escape. I was a nippy runner back then." 

There were echoes of memories best repressed and even Sherlock restricted himself to a nod, before he gave Lestrade a critical once over. "It's not hard to imagine you as an attractive teenager. You're still reasonably good looking. You've lost weight - nine and a half pounds. Though I don't know why you bothered cutting your hair and growing a beard. You're too good-looking to go unrecognised - unless for undercover work."

Watson closed his eyes, but Lestrade just snorted with amusement, before his expression hardened as he studied Watson, where he sat munching a biscuit.

"Just one more thing, John. I understand the reason Mycroft was hurt was because you were lashing out at Sherlock."

"I was angry," Watson said stiffly, but he looked uncomfortable.

"And that justifies hitting someone? You must have known Sherlock will never defend himself against you, that - " Lestrade stopped dead, then took several steadying breaths. "If I ever see a mark on him and find out you're responsible, I'll have you in a cell so fast your feet won't touch the ground."

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Sherlock. "As if I would press charges."

Lestrade directed a pointed look at Watson, who had winced, before he continued to watch Sherlock's restless path around the room.

"Sherlock, are you claiming it's acceptable for John to hit you whenever he feels your behaviour warrants it?" asked Lestrade with a deceptive calm.

Sherlock closed his mouth, made a sound of impatience and stalked another circuit of the room, automatically navigating the detritus on the floor. "You don't understand," he said at last.

"Sherlock..." Watson trailed off into a helpless silence.

"So by your logic it would be okay for me to beat up Mycroft every time he said or did something I didn't like?" pursued Lestrade.

"Only if I can watch," retorted Sherlock, but he avoided Lestrade's gaze.

"That's what I thought," said Lestrade. "No one deserves to be physically abused - least of all by someone they love. I've handled too many cases of domestic abuse: men on women, women on men, gay couples - I even had a triad once. I've heard every justification and excuse under the sun. And none of them - " He stopped again, gathered his breath, discovered that his hands were unsteady and tucked them from sight.

Watson's gaze had never left Sherlock. "I was so fucking furious with you. But Greg's right. I didn't think of it way. I should never have done it. And I'm sorry. It will never happen again."

"It's all right," Sherlock said in instant reassurance, clearly uncomfortable with all the emotion roiling around the room. "You would never hurt me. Not seriously."

"Said with all the confidence of a man who's always been sheltered," snapped Lestrade. His mouth tightened when he realised how close he had come to betraying Mycroft's secret.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You knew Mycroft protected me," he recognised. "Did he tell you?"

After a moment Lestrade gave an abrupt nod. "He never wanted you to know."

"I must have deleted the memories, or tried to. They came flooding back when I saw the blood seeping through his shirt."

Lestrade's mouth tightened but Watson had already launched into speech.

"Mycroft put himself between Sherlock and that blade faster than I could react. There was a moment when I was afraid the sword must've gone through him."

"In all these years he's never said a word about when we were children." Sherlock was frowning his dissatisfaction with being kept in the dark.

"Well, he wouldn't, would he? And I expect he'd like to keep it that way. I must go," Lestrade realised, glancing at his watch. "I'm supposed to be in Sainsbury's. See you tomorrow, Sherlock."

"What time would suit you best?" said Watson.

"John!" protested Sherlock.

"Save it. You've been looking for an excuse to see Mycroft's all right."

Sherlock helped himself to a biscuit to avoid meeting anyone's knowing gaze, but when no one broke the silence, was forced into speech.

"I thought you and I were good," he said to Lestrade.

"We are. But that doesn't mean I'm not pissed off with you. And I'm liable to be that way for a while yet. Suck it up," said Lestrade without sympathy.

"Oh. Is that why you won't work with me?"

"What?" Lestrade glanced at John for elucidation - it was often quicker that way.

"Sherlock's been trying to reach you at the Yard but your number's disconnected," said Watson.

Lestrade took a patient breath. "That's because they suspended me the day you jumped. You'll have to find yourself another tame detective," he told Sherlock as headed for the door, leaving a stark silence behind him.

 

It wasn't often that Mycroft got to answer his own front door, and a pang of loss at the thought of Annie and Len pierced him as he dealt with the locks.

"John. This is an unexpected pleasure," he said, as prim and closed-in as if he was at work.

"I didn't expect you to think so," said Watson.

Mycroft gave an inward sigh at the necessity of explaining the obvious. "No? Well, one must observe the niceties," he murmured, and had the satisfaction of watching Watson's eyes narrow. "Where's your shadow?"

"Sherlock? He said he had some private business to attend to. Not that kind," Watson added in hasty reassurance. "He's clean."

"I'm delighted to hear it. Did you want Gregory? Only I'm afraid he's likely to be out for a while yet."

Mycroft had no difficulty in identifying the expression which crossed Watson's face and he wondered what Gregory had done to so upset him.

He stepped back, and with a graceful flourish of his hand said: "You'd better come in."

 

Mycroft saw John out, secured the door and was just bracing himself for the stairs, because his shoulder was aching fiercely by now, when his phone rang.

"Sherlock?" he said. "Is anything amiss?"

 

Mycroft watched with a fascinated air as Lestrade ferried in a series of stuffed-to-capacity carrier bags.

"Are we expecting guests?" he enquired, when everything was finally in the kitchen.

"I might have got carried away," Lestrade conceded. "How did it go at the Clinic?"

"Fine."

"Yeah?" Lestrade turned from the larder he had been stocking.

"There's no need to sound so sceptical."

"I rang Bond."

"Ah. I'll make tea."

Lestrade grinned. "That won't save you."

Mycroft withstood a lengthy interrogation about his well-being with patience, recognising all the signs of a guilty conscience.

Once the shopping was put away, Lestrade began to clean the kitchen.

"Why are you starting to clean an already clean house?" asked Mycroft, worried that things might not be going as well as he had assumed.

"It doesn't smell right. Like home. It's probably just because they used different cleaning products," added Lestrade defensively.

"This house no longer feels like home to you?"

Lestrade shrugged. "The house has never been more than a nice bonus. You're home to me, not bricks and mortar."

His concern well-hidden, Mycroft nodded. "Would you rather we moved?"

Lestrade paused in polishing the already sparkling tap. "What? No, of course not. I'm just...being ridiculous," he recognised, before he wiped his damp hands down the seat of his jeans.

"We've both missed lunch. Let's go out," said Mycroft.

"Or we could eat some of the mountain of food I bought, then you could go back to bed for a nap while I make the rest of the house smell right."

Mycroft smiled at that, but the fact he made no protest told Lestrade just how tired he must be.

 

Lestrade ran down the stairs and opened the front door, only to give Edith Carson a hostile look. "He's on sick-leave."

"I hadn't forgotten. Two hours, at most. Then time off, apart from sick-leave."

"Until after his birthday - at the very least," said Lestrade promptly.

She didn't even hesitate. "Until the tenth then. May I come in?"

"Where's your security?" asked Lestrade, looking beyond her.

"If I need any in here several someones will be fired. May I call you Greg?"

"Why, are we going to be meeting often?" Lestrade secured the front door and gestured to the staircase.

She turned on the fourth step. "Doesn't that rather depend on you."

"Is this what passes for subtle interrogation with your mob?"

She gave an amused snort. 

"Use the family room. There are a few things I want to do - such a visiting a barbers. I'll be back in two hours," Lestrade added pointedly.

"You can wave me off," she said cheerfully, as she made herself comfortable on a sofa. "Pity about the beard though, I rather like it."

"Should we ever become an item I'll bear that in mind," Lestrade promised. "I'll see where Mycroft's got to."

 

Lestrade felt oddly naked without the beard, despite the fact he hadn't had it for that long. With time still to kill before the two hours were up, he stopped at a café for coffee and fished for his phone.

"Afternoon, Moneypenny."

"Oh, God," she said with foreboding.

"No need to be like that," chided Lestrade. "You know you missed me really."

"Mr Holmes, he's all right?"

"He will be. And given that he won't be back to work until after his birthday..."

"That's good."

"You might try to sound enthusiastic. Oh. Working with Edith doesn't suit?" said Lestrade.

"Sir..."

"You may as well call me Greg."

"You know I won't."

"Yeah. He needs more competent security."

"I know. I'm on it. Was that all you wanted?"

"Giving me the brush-off already?"

"It's difficult to remember why I missed you," Balasha said.

"He needs this break."

"I know. He hardly slept, never mind took time off since... " She trailed off into silence, aware yet again that she had told Gregory Lestrade more than she had meant to.

Lestrade pretended not to notice. "Can you let me have Annie and Len's number in Australia. No need to mention it to Mycroft, if you speak to him."

"What are you up to?"

"Interfering, of course. But if it doesn't go well he need never know," added Lestrade. "Oh, and if we need to go anywhere with electronic security you might like to know I'm carrying."

"Carrying what?" she asked with caution.

"A knife. Mycroft isn't armed, his security are a joke and I haven't fired a gun for six months. Not that I was ever what you could call a natural. But I used to carry a knife when I was a lot younger. No one would expect a bloke my age to use one, which will give the advantage of surprise if I ever need to use it."

"Sir..."

"If you don't like the idea you'd best improve his security, hadn't you." Lestrade rang off before she could reply.

 

Lestrade arrived back at Guardian House exactly five minutes before Edith Carson's two hours were up, but she was already on her way out.

"He's looking better than I dared hope at this stage. Keep up the good work," she said, before Lestrade closed the door behind her.

He ran upstairs, took one look at Mycroft's unguarded face and said, "Bed."

"What will you do?"

"Cuddle you. Read. Doze. Come on."

They were comfortably settled, when Mycroft said: "I liked the beard, but I like this even more," before kissing him and subsiding against the pillows with a sigh of relief.

Lestrade had just opened his e-book when a placid voice said:

"I had a most instructive visit from John Watson while you were out."

"Oh, fuck," groaned Lestrade, from against Mycroft's side, before he pushed himself up into a sitting position. "He told you?"

"Not in so many words. He came to apologise for stabbing me, and to assure me that was the last time he would ever attempt to hit Sherlock. What did you say to him?"

The smile faded from Lestrade's face. "That domestic violence is never acceptable. I didn't tell you I was going round there because - "

 

"No need to explain. John seemed worried that you might be intending to - what was the phrase he used? - 'toss Sherlock on his arse a few more times'."

Lestrade explained. "The silly sod really thought he could take me on. I disillusioned him. Fast. Better me that some..."

"Quite."

"John will see Sherlock doesn't come to any harm," consoled Lestrade.

"That has never been in doubt. But I had hoped he might be a moderating influence," said Mycroft with a trace of wistfulness.

Lestrade gave a snort of amusement. "Hope's cheap. They're as bad as each other in some respects."

"Sherlock didn't realise you'd been suspended," added Mycroft with caution.

Lestrade's expression closed.

"And I am so very sorry about that. I could..."

"No!" Lestrade just stopped his retreat from the bed. "No," he repeated, more moderately. "I'll wait the IPCC out. Course, if they decide to set me up I'll come screaming to you for help."

"Noted," said Mycroft. He swallowed all the questions he wanted to ask, the reassurance he wanted to give, because the subject was too painful for Gregory to be able to discuss. Gregory's suspension was collateral damage - he had never allowed himself to think how much it would hurt him.

Lestrade resettled himself against Mycroft.

"After John left, Sherlock called me - to explain that John had never intended to hurt me. You really did have an interesting chat with them, didn't you."

"Stop making a meal of it. I may have over-reacted a bit. But only a bit," Lestrade added with spirit. "Of course, my lecture would have been far more effective if I hadn't started by overtly threatening John - only he made me so fucking mad, the casual way he dismissed stabbing you."

"It really was at accident. He thought it was an umbrella."

"And my present came close to killing you."

"Well it certainly wasn't your fault - and I'm not getting rid of it," anticipated Mycroft with a hint of tartness, because it was clear Gregory was in danger of wallowing in guilt. I wish I'd seen you with John and Sherlock. It takes a lot to worry Sherlock," he mused, with a bland innocence that didn't deceive Lestrade for a moment.

"If you're feeling well enough to take the piss we're going to see the dinosaurs tomorrow."

"Make it Monday. Too many children at the weekend."

"Monday it is. We've got over forty days..." 

"So Edith mentioned."

Lestrade turned the better to see Mycroft's expression. "You don't mind?"

"Right now it's a relief. And even when my shoulder's healed... we've never spent that long together. Without interruptions."

"I know. Let's hope we don't get bored," said Lestrade, straight-faced.

Mycroft still wore a slight smile when he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

SUNDAY, 2nd OCTOBER 2011

　

Lestrade hadn't expected to do more than doze while Mycroft slept and so was mildly embarrassed to wake up at what he discovered was half past three in the morning, just as Mycroft was returning from the bathroom.

"So much for our nap," he said wryly. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I only woke up a couple of minutes ago," admitted Mycroft, before he yawned and gave a cautious stretch, only to find Lestrade still watching him.

"What?"

"I'm wide awake," said Lestrade, in a pointed manner.

Mycroft grinned. "As I've just enjoyed over ten hours sleep, so am I - for a change. You look better too."

Lestrade's nod conceded the point. "I always slept better with you beside me, that obviously hasn't changed. I'm starving. Shower before or after we eat?"

　

Lestrade spent as much time kissing Mycroft as he did washing him under the shower, until a sharp pain made him exclaim and snatch back his hand, where he had been soaping Mycroft's rib cage.

"Gregory?"

"I cut my finger on - Bloody hell, there's glass sticking out of your skin!" Lestrade stared at him in wide-eyed horror.

Mycroft peered down at himself without much interest. "Bond said the odd fragment might work its way free. I'm sorry you - "

"Don't be daft, it took me by surprise, that's all. We'd best get you to the Clinic."

"I hardly think that's necessary. If the angle wasn't so awkward I'd pull it out myself. Couldn't you...?"

Lestrade looked queasy.

"You can't possibly be squeamish after all you've seen while working."

"This is you," snapped Lestrade. "Shift yourself while I change the water flow on the shower head closest to you. With a bit a luck the water will wash it out."

"And then you can cut your foot, too."

"It's that or the Clinic," said Lestrade, in the tone even Mycroft didn't waste his time arguing with; he shifted.

To his private surprise, Lestrade's suggestion worked, loosening another small fragment at the same time. He used that as an excuse to examine Mycroft with painstaking detail.

"You were damn lucky none of that glass caught your cock or balls," he said bluntly.

"Especially given that some of the glass even ended up inside my underwear," agreed Mycroft.

"Your voice isn't nearly so hoarse now, and you're coughing less."

"I don't think it was the glass so much as the dust. The landslide raised quite a dust storm." His expression closing, Mycroft added briskly, "Food?"

Lestrade nodded, accepting the change of subject, for now.

　

"It's still so early we could get to one of the markets as it opens," said Mycroft, as they sat over the remains of what they had called brunch, despite the fact it was still only six o'clock in the morning.

"Great. Though we'll need a driver. You won't be up to too much walking yet. We could try that market in - Ah," Lestrade broke off to say, before he looked vague.

"Is there a problem?"

"The thing is... Sherlock might be coming round later this morning," confided Lestrade, rubbing his nose.

Mycroft eyed him with a mixture of shrewdness and affection. "Bullied into it by you, no doubt."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that. John will probably be with him."

"Oh, joy."

"There's nothing to stop us going out for a walk now. This neck of the woods on a Sunday, most of London will still be asleep, except for the joggers. And they don't count."

"Why?" asked Mycroft curiously, regarding it as a victory when Lestrade abandoned the littered breakfast table without a backward glance.

"I can think of more fun ways to work up a sweat and feel the endorphins. Though not until your arm's out of a sling. I've no intention of explaining to Bond how you injured your shoulder."

Mycroft gave a slow smile. "We'll just have to try something else. Though maybe not for a few days yet," he admitted realistically.

　

By the time they returned home, their spirits undampened by the mizzle that had been misting the air, it was still only just after eight thirty in the morning. Laden with a hefty armful of the Sunday papers, Lestrade set them on the table with relief.

"Sport and crosswords for me - the rest for you," he told Mycroft. "Get stuck in and I'll make the tea."

The doorbell rang before the kettle had boiled.

"Good God," said Mycroft. "Sherlock paying a visit before nine in the morning. Armageddon must be neigh. Or he wants money."

"So cynical," sighed Lestrade. "I'll get the door while you brace yourself."

He ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time because his energy levels seemed to improve with each day he and Mycroft spent together.

Sherlock stalked into the family room, pausing when he saw his brother. Eyes narrowed, he studied Mycroft from top to toe but made no comment about what he saw.

"We won't stay long," he said by way of a salutation.

"Thank you for sparing the time." As expected, the sarcasm went straight over Sherlock's head. "John, always a pleasure."

"It was his idea that we came here at all. You might have made some effort," Sherlock added after a critical look around. "We left the place tidier than this."

"And cleaner," said Lestrade, avoiding Mycroft's gaze. "Practising for your first crime scene?"

"How did you - ? I clean," Sherlock said with a trace of indignation.

Watson snorted.

"Not often, I concede. There's no need. If John won't do it Mrs Hudson does, when the mess starts getting on her nerves."

"Whatever rent you're paying her isn't enough," said Mycroft in heartfelt tones.

"Speaking of money, I need twenty thousand pounds from the Trust Fund. Well, twenty thousand, one hundred actually." Sherlock gave Lestrade a pointed look.

"You're a tight bugger," said Lestrade. "Forget it. I never expected you to cough up anyway."

"I _am not_ mean," insisted Sherlock, stung.

"Just not very good at paying your debts," said Lestrade, amused.

With a very poor grace Sherlock produced five twenty pound notes and thrust them at him.

"In the interest of fairness, one of those is mine," said Watson.

Lestrade grinned. "I'm surprised it's only one. Here, you take the lot. Buy something decent for Mrs Hudson. God knows she earns it looking after you two."

"She needs a new saucepan," Sherlock allowed.

"Don't ask," anticipated John. "We're thinking about renting 221C as well as B. Get rid of the damp and it could make a decent lab. for Sherlock. It'd be nice to keep the smells out of the kitchen."

"Costing twenty thousand!" said Lestrade incredulously.

"Only about ten, or so," said Sherlock.

"You might like to consider spending some of the rest on improving Mrs Hudson's flat," said Mycroft.

"Why? It's perfectly comfortable," said Sherlock.

"I can think of a few things she'd like," said Watson.

"No tenants for one," murmured Lestrade, making Mycroft give one of those grins which no one but him seemed to notice.

"I heard that," said Watson. "Though you could have a point."

Deaf to the exchange, Sherlock was staring at his brother. "You should be taking something stronger than paracetamol."

"I react badly to anything else. It's fine," said Mycroft. "Truly," he added, when Sherlock looked troubled.

"You used to stand like this after Daddy - "

"That was a long time ago."

"I never thanked you."

"Well don't start now," said Mycroft with asperity. "Though there is one thing you could do for me."

"Oh, God, I don't have to work for you again, do I?"

"It's not that bad. John, would you ensure Sherlock masters basic self-defence? Or I can recommend an instructor."

"Probably best if I do it," said Watson. "Maybe Greg could help out."

Sherlock snorted.

"No way," said Lestrade with decision. "I might enjoy myself too much. Anyway, my time's spoken for," he added, with obvious satisfaction.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "A case?"

"I'm suspended," Lestrade reminded him.

"You mean you want to spend all that time with Mycroft? Rather you than me."

"I couldn't agree more," said Mycroft. "The funds will be in your bank account by midday tomorrow."

"Excellent. Come on, John. I'll buy us lunch."

No one saw the need to point out it wasn't even ten o'clock in the morning.

"Balasha will send you details of a reputable builder. I'll organise a car to take Mrs Hudson to her sister while the work's being carried out," said Mycroft.

"Ah, yes, it will be inconvenient," Sherlock realised. He glanced at John. "We'll go away. Abroad. I've never had a holiday. Right, we must be off."

But rather than leave, he went over to where Mycroft stood and, with his back to the room, murmured something which Lestrade, who was frankly eavesdropping, couldn't catch. From his expression, neither could John.

Mycroft cupped his hand round the back of Sherlock's neck, drew him in, kissed his cheek and let him go again. "Don't be ridiculous," he said fondly.

Sherlock scrubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, gave his brother a filthy look, and stalked out of the room without looking to see if Watson was following him.

"Now I know how to get rid of him," said Mycroft, when Lestrade returned from seeing them out.

"What did he say? Or is it private?"

Mycroft grinned. "He told me there was never any excuse for violence between partners, but that I could always call on him."

Lestrade blinked. "What?" It took him a moment longer to appreciate what Sherlock had been suggesting. "Hang on, he thinks I'll start thumping you? God, Mycroft, _you_ don't, do you?"

"Why do you think I told Sherlock not to be ridiculous." Because Lestrade was looking troubled, rather than amused, Mycroft added, "Never," with a flat conviction that was its own reassurance. "I promise you, it's never occurred to me. Although it _is_ your fault Sherlock suggested it," he murmured provocatively.

Lestrade leaned in to the arm tucked around him and kissed Mycroft's jaw. "I might have known I'd be to blame. Though I suppose I did put the idea into his head, just when he'd remembered your childhood. Should I have a word?"

"No need. His concern manifests itself in the oddest ways. He's known you long enough to know you're far from being a violent man.

"Good heavens, he and John are in the park," Mycroft added, looking over Lestrade's shoulder and through the rear window.

"And not following anyone, just wandering through the fallen leaves - like normal people," marvelled Lestrade, who had turned in the embrace so he could watch them too.

Mycroft tucked his good arm around Lestrade's chest. "I can't remember ever seeing Sherlock this happy."

"John must be a glutton for punishment."

"The same might be said of you," Mycroft pointed out.

The couple in the park forgotten, Lestrade kissed him into silence.

　

MONDAY, 3rd OCTOBER 2011

　

Because of their disturbed sleep pattern the previous day, they found it difficult to sleep - in Mycroft's case not least because Lestrade had a series of nightmares which never quite woke him. They ended up over-sleeping, so that they only just made it to the Clinic in time for Mycroft's session with the physiotherapist.

The Range Rover stuck at the lights, Lestrade jumped as the loud bang from the building site causing such confusion in the complex in front of Victoria station.

"I knew I should have come back the other way," he murmured. "It looks like we'll be stuck here for a while yet."

When he gained no reply he looked across to see Mycroft staring blankly ahead. He was sweating slightly, his unsplinted hand clutching the seatbelt like a lifeline.

There was another loud noise, as rubble shot down one of the shutes, making Mycroft flinch.

Lestrade placed his palm on Mycroft's knee and rubbed it slowly as he began to talk, pitching his voice low. As he came to the end of a pointless recital of grocery items the traffic began to move again and he was able to ease the car away, careful to avoid the need for any sudden application of the brake.

After another minute or so Mycroft relaxed his grip, then met Lestrade's gaze.

"Flashback?" asked Lestrade casually.

The muscles around Mycroft's mouth tightened, but he eventually gave a reluctant nod.

"Yeah. I should've thought. You should talk to someone about them."

"Who can I talk to?" said Mycroft, with a trace of weariness.

Lestrade blinked because he hadn't expected Mycroft to concede the need. "Well, there's always me."

The tension on Mycroft's face eased to a degree. "Yes," he said, with obvious satisfaction. "There's always you. And I will try. Only not yet. It's too..."

"Okay," said Lestrade, satisfied for now. "Just don't forget, you can. About anything."

"Yes," said Mycroft, on an obvious note of discovery. "It's just that I've never - "

" - shared your problems with anyone?"

"Well, no."

"You don't have to. But sometimes talking things out can help. It's the getting started that's the difficult bit."

Mycroft was aware of a jolt of ignoble jealousy. "Who did you - Your wife?"

"No. I never really talked about anything important. Though I didn't realise that at the time."

"So that little speech just now?"

Lestrade changed into third gear and spared Mycroft a brief grin. "I didn't say I'd tried it myself - until I met you. Is there anything that might help? Avoiding noisy areas, or seeking them out? More driving, or less? We could always walk."

"Hardly a practical option for the future. Would you mind if we tried more journeys?"

"Are you kidding? I love driving."

Because Mycroft had yet to admit how taxing he found it, Lestrade took them home rather than to the Natural History Museum. "I'd rather make a full day of it there, and you're not up to that yet. What do you fancy for lunch? If it helps, I'm in the mood to work magic." He flexed his fingers with a theatrical flourish.

"I must be besotted," said Mycroft with a sigh. "Even that ridiculous leer seems appealing."

"Or appalling. I'm starving, even if you're not."

"I _am_ hungry," said Mycroft, on a note of discovery.

"Then what would you like?" asked Lestrade with exaggerated patience.

"Soup. When I first visited your flat - on my birthday - you made me soup. From scratch. Though that wasn't the reason I felt so at home there. I'd never felt so comfortable anywhere."

"That's because we fit. I felt the same way as soon as I got you inside."

"Out of the cold and into the warm," said Mycroft, just before Lestrade began to kiss him.

"Right, enough with distracting me," said Lestrade eventually.

"You started it," said Mycroft, with a trace of indignation.

Lestrade waved aside the irrelevance. "What was the soup I made? Can you remember? Stupid question," he added immediately. "Of course you can. What I meant was, did I tell you what was in it?"

"No, and it didn't occur to me to ask. It contained chickpeas, and spices - and something green. Spinach?"

"Oh, yeah. And a bit of eye of newt." Lestrade was already checking cupboards before he dived into the fridge. "Yep. My stocking up has paid off. Moroccan chickpea soup it is."

Because Mycroft could offer little practical help with only one functioning hand, he retreated to sit at the table, choosing the seat which offered the best view of Lestrade.

It had never been a hardship to watch Gregory, he mused, but too often he had been distracted by lust. He prided himself on his powers of observation, but since their reunion he had been reminded how long it had taken him to appreciate that it didn't do to take Gregory's ready smile at face value. All too often Gregory used it to camouflage darker, more complex emotions.

That bloody Care Home had done its best to warp Gregory's natural sweetness of nature, drumming it into him that no one would want a sullen boy, least of all a trouble-maker - strictures reinforced by the foster parents who had rejected the less than perfect child they had brought into their home. Consciously or not, Gregory had learned to hide much of what he felt behind a serene facade and an easy smile: unfaithful wife; obnoxious consultant; vilification by the press; and then betrayal by his lover... Small wonder Gregory had been smiling too much since his return, as if he thought he wouldn't otherwise be wanted. Not in any way that really mattered.

"Mycroft, it's time for your tablets."

Roused from his abstraction, Mycroft nodded his thanks and swallowed them dry, his gaze never leaving Lestrade.

"You know you can talk to me about anything. Anything at all."

Lestrade looked up from scraping seeds from a chilli, his smile turning to puzzlement. "And I have. Many times. What made you say that? I'm not the one getting flashbacks."

Mycroft debated hedging round the subject, but decided on the direct approach Gregory favoured: it didn't come easily to him.

"Is the reason you don't want to question me yet that you're afraid you'll lose your temper, and that I'll leave? Because there isn't anything you could say or do that would make me do that. Even to save your life I couldn't do that."

"No," said Lestrade, into what had become a lengthy silence, "you made sure I would leave you." Seeds disposed of, he washed his hands, drying them with more deliberation than the task required.

"Yes, I did," said Mycroft.

Lestrade tossed away the tea towel. "What is it you're really trying to say?"

"That Care Home made you believe that in order to be loved you had to be less than yourself . That the people who mattered most wouldn't accept anything but perfection. They were wrong, so wrong. But sometimes I worry that you don't feel able to - When I irritate you, you should feel able to snap at me, or to argue."

Expressions chased across Lestrade's face - humiliation, anger, mutating into a kind of resigned acceptance.

"When I was a kid it was easier to run than try to change something over which I had no control. That pattern of letting things go never really went away. But that's never been a problem with you, not least because I don't like - I _hate_ \- arguing with the people I love."

"So I do," Mycroft reminded him. "And if my reasons aren't quite the same, they're similar enough for me to be able to understand."

Lestrade studied him, then nodded, exhaling slowly. "Yes, you do, don't you." Food preparation forgotten, he sat opposite Mycroft at the table.

Mycroft watched as Lestrade helped himself to an apple from the bowl, but sat rolling it between his palms rather than trying to eat it.

"Except for the obvious stuff - the house, manipulating me into leaving - you don't piss me off. In fact, you're really easy to live with," said Lestrade after a while.

"I'm glad. Surprised. But glad," said Mycroft with truth.

Lestrade nodded, but made no attempt to reply. After a few moments he placed the apple on the table, and with his index finger in the dimple where the stem had been, turned it around and around, concentrating way beyond what the task demanded.

After some time he looked up to find Mycroft watching him.

"What do you want to know?" Mycroft asked, having recognised the signs of inner debate.

Lestrade puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. "I should have known you'd guess. I do have questions about why you did what you did back in May. And I have been finding excuses to avoid this discussion. But you're right, it's the elephant in the room and we need to get it out the way."

"Ask me anything," said Mycroft simply, but he had tensed.

Lestrade nodded but took his time; this was dangerous territory for them both, and Mycroft had his own version of a brave face.

"I know you must have been in danger and panicked that I'd get caught up in whatever it was. What I don't understand is why it took you so long to sort out," he said at last.

"Perhaps if I gave you a brief outline of events," suggested Mycroft.

His gaze never leaving Mycroft's face, Lestrade gave an encouraging nod, all his attention given to the man opposite him. "In your own time."

Such was Mycroft's preoccupation that it took him several seconds to appreciate that his every micro-movement was under the microscope. His manner deceptively casual, and exuding calm, Gregory missed nothing; it was why he was so good at interviewing witnesses.

"The day - " Mycroft stopped, swallowed and said quickly, "the day I drove you to leave I had attended a JIC meeting, at which the head of MI5 finally thought to report the deaths of family members of eight people vital to the efficient running on the country: the Cabinet Secretary, a High Court judge, financiers, an adviser to the PM... All seemingly accidental. Just like your near miss with that white van," he added, when Lestrade opened his mouth.

"Ah," said Lestrade, before he gave another encouraging nod.

"Immediately after the meeting, Balasha reported that she'd just discovered we had a mole. In my section. No one could be considered innocent. It meant that one of the people supposed to be guarding you could have - "

"Yeah. I get it, I do. God, the combination of the two things explains everything," breathed Lestrade, before he slumped back in his chair, scrubbing a hand roughly over his hair. A few moments later he said,

"As I thought, you went into protective mode and panicked - the way you do when anyone you love is in danger."

"I wanted - needed - you to be safe. I knew you would never leave of your own accord."

"Bloody right I wouldn't." There was a grim set to Lestrade's face as he continued to analyse what he had been told,

"I knew I wouldn't be able to convince you to leave so ..." When Mycroft saw Lestrade's expression further harden, he changed tack. "Because I knew you would spot a lie, I took advice from our leading interrogator. Bond gave me muscle relaxants, and an injection which meant micro-movements of my face were less likely to betray me when I lied to you. Then I used the one lie you would believe. The one which would hurt you enough to leave. I had already terminated your security - the break had to be convincing to those in my section who knew of our relationship. I had to hope it would be enough to keep you alive."

"I wondered how you'd managed to lie to me. You were..." It was a moment before Lestrade trusted his voice "...very convincing."

Mycroft flinched. "It took so long because the investigation had to be kept secret and so became a time-consuming affair, piecing together individuals' contacts, cross-checking of the use of electronic devices, GPS... Initially only by myself and Balasha because everyone else was still a suspect. At the same time world events were...complex. You hardly need me to remind you that, in addition, Moriarty was being particularly tiresome. Our resources were severely stretched. And my concentration wasn't all it should have been."

Lestrade just stopped himself from snapping a retort he might later regret. "I might be angry but I meant what I said. This time you won't get rid of me, whatever you say." But there was a stinging bitterness in the reminder, the smile he found almost worse.

"Speaking of Moriarty, whatever happened to him?" he added after a few moments. "He seems to have vanished off the grid. Did you have him twepped?"

"No. He killed himself." Mycroft gave a concise report of the events which had led to Sherlock jumping from the roof of Barts.

"You're sure Moriarty's really dead?"

"Medical students dissected his body. His head is still in cold storage - should it be needed."

Lestrade nodded, but his attention was clearly elsewhere.

"I get all that, I do," he said at last. "But I still don't understand why I couldn't be told that Sherlock was alive. Sherlock said you wanted to tell me - and John," he added as an obvious afterthought.

"I did. But it was an emotional response. Fortunately Sherlock supplied the logic that enabled me to see sense." Disgusted with his sentimentality, Mycroft failed to recognise the warning signs.

"It's good to know who I have to thank for three months of grief, guilt and misery. So you let Sherlock over-rule you?"

"No. I came to my senses. We had no way of ascertaining just how many assassins Moriarty had primed to hunt you three. I suspect suicide hadn't been part of his plan. I believe the game suddenly lost its savour for him, win or lose. And, being something of an actor, he couldn't resist that final dramatic flourish. You're such an honest man, we couldn't risk your reaction - or lack of reaction to Sherlock's death - which would have alerted Moriarty's cohorts, resulting in the death of the three people Sherlock cared for most."

Lestrade absorbed that in silence, staring into the middle distance.

"Gregory?" Mycroft said tentatively, when he could no longer stand the sense of emotions precariously contained.

Lestrade abruptly refocused, his face coming alive, his entire body emitting nervous energy to the point where he was quivering with it.

"Don't 'Gregory' me! You - who claims to love me - put me through months of hell, months in which I was convinced I was responsible for Sherlock's death, because you think I'm not a good liar!" Lestrade's voice was raw, roughening with the force of the rage which swept his chair back from the table and himself to his feet.

"I'm starting to wonder if I ever knew you at all! You certainly don't seem to understand the first thing about me. I don't care what you _think_ your motives were, I _know_ what they were. Selfish. You couldn't bear the idea I might be murdered - better a quick severing, so you had one thing less to worry about and bugger what it might do to me."

"I - "

"You've said quite enough," said Lestrade in a grating voice, so unlike his usual tone. "As for me not being able to lie. I had to lie every day. To superiors - no, sir, of course the additional manpower won't affect our budget - to the press, because sometimes you have to guard against giving them information which might possibly help the perpetrator. To relatives. Especially when one of them is the prime suspect.

"You arrogant fucker. I'm a bloody wonderful liar. How could you not know that?" Lestrade added, a break to his voice, before he slumped back on his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as he struggled to regain control of the temper he let off the leash so rarely.

While pale with stress, Mycroft was totally focussed on the man opposite him. "Real grief - the kind that gnaws at you for weeks and months - is hard to feign. Perhaps you could have appeared to be a man in mourning every moment of every day, even under the fiercest public and professional scrutiny, but John certainly couldn't. Would you have been able to face him, knowing the truth?"

"John isn't such a bad liar as you assume," said Lestrade, calmer after his outburst because on one level Mycroft - Sherlock - had been correct. He wouldn't have been capable of feigning that kind of grief.

"But not about Sherlock's suicide," said Mycroft with certainty.

"No," conceded Lestrade tiredly. He rolled the apple between his hands again, concentrating on the mindless task until he could think of something other than the overwhelming arrogance of the Holmes brothers.

He would far rather have taken his chance with the assassins, and he was damned sure John would agree with him. Which left Mrs Hudson.

Bugger.

"It must be wonderful to be right all the time," he said into the silence, making no attempt to disguise his bitterness.

The muscles around Mycroft's eyes flinched, but he made no attempt to defend himself.

"You were right, of course," Lestrade added abruptly. "I wouldn't have been a convincing liar. Not about that. Though right now that's not a lot of comfort."

"It wouldn't be," Mycroft agreed colourlessly.

"Your mole. It wasn't David, was it?" Lestrade asked, pushing on through because he wanted this over with.

"Good God, no. He was the first person I cleared. Not least because I needed his help. It took months to clear everyone. Just after we had finally done so, Heather - one of our IT experts - traced the leak back to one of Dame Edith's security men. She's kept briefed on major issues - in fact she knew of the eight deaths before I did - and immediately got Jasper to re-investigate her husband's car accident - which had caused her to resign. Jasper wasn't up to the task of doing so discretely. He made a reference on the dark net, to something we thought only someone in my section would know of. Edith's security were quite separate - though inevitably her detail hears the odd thing. As was the case with Jasper. That has been taken into account. Changes have been made." His mouth set in a grim line, Mycroft forced himself to meet Lestrade's gaze.

"A short time after learning there had never been a mole we finally tracked down the last of Moriarty's senior cohorts. Which meant it was safe for everyone to come home. I recalled Sherlock, met his plane, and brought him here, where John was waiting. I needed them to stay out of the public eye until arrangements could be finalised to ensure no one involved in his 'death' and its aftermath would face prosecution."

"Including you, presumably," said Lestrade, remembering the brief report of the inquest into Sherlock's death.

"And Doctor Hooper. Much of the success of the plan depended on her. By falsifying the post mortem and death certificate she risked her career and her freedom."

"She has a totally unrealistic view of Sherlock. I take it Sherlock got tired of waiting for you to give the all clear?"

"Inevitably. And that's the whole story. Except to point out what you must already have realised. It was all for nothing. I put you through hell for nothing. There never was a mole and you would have been far, far safer with me. And I am more sorry for that than I know how to say." Like an over-wound clock Mycroft came to a halt, blinking slowly up at Lestrade, who by this time was perched on the edge of the table beside him.

"I was wrong to say you took the easy option. There hasn't been anything easy about the last six months - for you, as well as me."

"I may have cost you your job."

Lestrade shrugged. "That's been a possibility since the day you annexed me to work with Sherlock. I knew that then. Not that there was anything I could do about it," he added with the ghost of a grin, distance, and his feelings for Mycroft, enabling him to see the funny side. "But it was worth it, Sherlock's involvement meant we solved some cases I might never have done with just my team. In others we kept a killer from possibly killing again before we had all the evidence we needed. The top brass are quick to take the kudos, even faster to throw one of their own to the wolves. I dunno why I expected any different this time. I just hope it won't impact on any of my team.

"What?" he added gently, when Mycroft continued to stare at him.

"I don't know what to - I'm used to being able to fix things. To being right," Mycroft added with a contemptuous twist of his mouth. "And the one time it matters most, I fuck it up. I can't ever put right what I did to you."

"It's not a matter of fixing it." said Lestrade gently. "It happened. And now I know why - I'm not saying being led to believe Sherlock was dead doesn't make me bloody livid every time I think of it but... You were right. I wouldn't have been able to maintain a lie about that.

"How did John take the deception? After the initial urge to beat Sherlock into a pulp, I mean?"

"He's so besotted he's... I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "But, for once, I'm going to let Sherlock sort it out."

Lestrade nodded. "I think John gave him a bad fright. Not by trying to hit him," he added quickly. "But something went on between them. Just how close did John get to topping himself?"

"Close enough for me to arrange for his Sig Saur to be slightly damaged."

Lestrade grimaced. "Then that's what's got Sherlock running after him like a hen with one chick. But they look... Well, you saw them this morning. They look like us, I suppose. A couple.

"There's just one more thing," he added, making Mycroft tense all over again. "You need to start believing you don't know what's best for me."

Mycroft gave one of his odd little grimaces. "I could lie. If I had any sense I would but - You need to understand. In similar circumstances, with the same degree of knowledge, I would do _exactly_ the same thing. Better you hating me than you dead," he added, steadfast.

Lestrade stared at him, his expression slowly easing into reluctant acceptance. Mycroft's wasn't the easy kind of love, but it would always put him before Mycroft's own wishes. "You are _such_ a bloody Holmes," he said, caught between affection, exasperation and acceptance. Besides, he'd felt exactly the same way at David's funeral. Anything was better than Mycroft dead.

"Oh, come here," he added, unable to stand the expression on Mycroft's face any longer.

He launched forward and took Mycroft in a fierce hug, rubbing his face against his neck as if trying to scent-mark him. Mycroft returned the embrace with equal ferocity, only slightly hampered by having one arm in a sling.

"Thank God that's over with," said Lestrade, when they finally drew apart, both looking a little self-conscious.

"Is it? Over, I mean?"

"It has to be. Besides, there are no bones to pick over. I meant it when I said I understand why you reacted the way you did."

"I will try," Mycroft promised, without enthusiasm.

"Attaboy. Mind, there is one drawback to all this, as far as you're concerned. When you finally get tired of me and want to cast me off like a worn out shoe, I'm not going to believe you. Not even if you're tucked up in bed with fifteen dancing boys."

"Don't be ridiculous. Our bed isn't large enough," said Mycroft, with superb timing.

Lestrade nearly choked on the mouthful of apple he had just taken.

Still a little watery-eyed and red-faced, Lestrade made tea, before sitting oppsite Mycroft. "Joking apart, you have to find a way to deal with your worry. If I can find a way to let you out the door every morning then you have to do the same." He cocked his head, watching the penny to drop.

"Oh," said Mycroft, almost immediately, but he looked disconcerted.

"Yeah. 'Oh.' It's easy. You just have to train yourself not to think of all the worst case scenarios - accidents, acts of God, storms, tempest, plagues of frogs... Like I said, easy."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You're just loving this, aren't you," he recognised, a resigned amusement on his face.

Lestrade's grin was full of affection. "You'd better believe it. It's not often I get to stand on the moral high ground."


	4. Chapter 4

TUESDAY, 4th OCTOBER

Now he was no longer suffering from exhaustion Mycroft was finding it increasingly difficult to get to sleep while propped against pillows wearing both a sling and a hand splint. But there were compensations to being awake at three in the morning, not least the distraction of Lestrade curled at his side, the fingers of his visible hand twitching as he slept.

Mycroft had yet to take for granted the luxury of free time in which to read and had intended to reacquaint himself with his library, but hardback books and only one useable hand were an awkward mix, so he had caved in a bought an e-book reader. The experience of using it was more pleasant than he had anticipated but its contents failed to compete with the soft snuffles emanating from Lestrade, whose face was pressed against him, his regular breathing a damp stirring against the skin of Mycroft's stomach. Mycroft set aside spectacles and reader, and removed the splint from his fingers so he could flick off the bed light without disturbing the sleeper.

The darkness complete, he allowed himself the luxury of stroking the cropped grey hair with the side of his thumb until he, too, fell asleep, marvelling at his good fortune.

On this occasion, Lestrade's nightmare woke them both.

Over breakfast Lestrade was so cheerful it was tempting for Mycroft to believe he had imagined the expression on Gregory's face when he'd started awake, sweating and obviously caught up in an old terror. But he had shaken off any suggestion that he might want to talk about it before snuggling back up against Mycroft and giving an excellent impression of a man asleep.

"You're not wearing your splint," Lestrade noticed belatedly, just before he bit into a pear.

"It's fine."

"Yeah? I'd rather get confirmation from James Bond, so I'll come to the Clinic with you. Before then I thought we could take a wander round Borough Market."

"We must see if we can get any more of those preserved lemons. They're far superior to those at the supermarket or deli. Gregory..."

"Hang on, I recognise that tone," joked Lestrade.

Mycroft pulled a face. "I'm sure you do. But in the interests of full disclosure there's something I should have told you before we moved in here."

Lestrade swallowed his last mouthful of pear. "That would be about the secret door, I suppose."

Porridge slipped from Mycroft's spoon to land soggily in the dish below. "You knew?"

"Oh, please."

"You didn't say anything."

"Nor did you," pointed out Lestrade, licking juice from his fingers in a manner Mycroft found highly distracting.

"When did you find out?"

Lestrade sighed and came clean. "After that thing down at Baskerville. It was pure accident. I came home to collect a file I'd forgotten. As I let myself in I saw someone going down the stairs to the basement. I went after them of course - "

"Of course," said Mycroft dryly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "You really think this is the time?"

Mycroft conceded defeat with a sweep of his hand, in the process realising that perhaps he should have worn the splint after all.

"Anyway, I lost them. So I called David because I didn't want you coming back to an unsecured house. David came clean about the door."

"He didn't mention it to me."

"There was a lot going on around that time. Then we - I moved out..." Lestrade shrugged, before his expression lightened again. "While we're on the subject, does that door mean we could have strangers - to me, at any rate - wandering in and out at will?"

"Certainly not. The reverse, in fact. The sensors were being upgraded, that's all. You were supposed to be working. Although that didn't excuse the lapse by the detail monitoring the approach to the house. The door, which is bomb-proof, can only be opened from this side. I must show you the hidden key pad and sequence. We're unlikely ever to need to use it," Mycroft added with deliberation.

"Fair enough."

Mycroft gave him a look of suspicion. "That's very forgiving of you."

"Nah, I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security. Finish your porridge, it's good for you."

"It's cold."

"It wouldn't be if you'd eaten it straight away. Oh, God, I'm starting to sound like your nanny."

"Fortunately you don't bear any resemblance to Martha Hudson," Mycroft told him as he pushed away the dish before helping himself to several lychees.

As Lestrade drove them back from the Clinic - a tedious process given that they had become caught up in the beginning of the rush-hour traffic - Mycroft's expression was a cross between sulky and glum, while Lestrade's bordered on smug.

"Why don't you just say you told me so and get it over with?" said Mycroft, conceding defeat.

"And risk ruining my chances of a blow job later? Though I did. Perhaps now you'll leave the finger splints on at night. Bond said you should only need them until the end of the week - if you do as you're told."

"Bond had the sense not to phrase it so bluntly," Mycroft pointed out.

Lestrade just grinned, encouraged to note that Mycroft was on the cusp of a huff - a sure sign that he, too, no longer felt he had to be on his best behaviour. He gave Mycroft's thigh a comforting rub. "You're healing, that's all that matters. This traffic's a bugger."

"We could always abandon the car and walk."

"Which would mean splitting up your security, because someone would have to drive this. I don't think so."

Mycroft inhaled and said quietly, "It isn't Ralph's fault that he resembles David physically, while being completely different in every other way."

Lestrade shot him a quick look, relaxing when he recognised the understanding on Mycroft's face. "I know that. I do. And you tell me he's going to be good."

"I have high hopes. But if you're not comfortable with him I can - "

"Don't be daft. You must miss David far more than me."

Mycroft grimaced and nodded. "Though I suspect the enormity of the loss won't sink in fully until I'm back at work. Oh, don't offer Ralph bacon sandwiches, he's a vegetarian and lacto-intolerant. He's twenty three."

"That's young!"

"Training takes time." Mycroft gave his immobilised right arm a sour look. "I'm feeling increasingly middle-aged. And impatient," he admitted.

"I had a clue," said Lestrade, straight-faced. "You're not used to situations you can't control."

"You really are milking this, aren't you," noted Mycroft, minor irritations falling away as he recognised, yet again, just how lucky he was.

"Yeah," said Lestrade with glee. He swung the car into the cul-de-sac that housed their home. "I've thought of some fine motor movements you might enjoy more than those you've been set by the physio. - your fingers around my cock, for instance."

Mycroft was so distracted that it was a full seven seconds before he realised that the door to Guardian House had been opened from the inside and that Len was staring at him with an expression in which affection and distress were equally mixed. He never remembered leaving the car.

A few moments later Len had him in a fierce hug.

Panting slightly as she ran down the stairs, flour on her hands, Annie gasped and grabbed hold of Lestrade.

"He'll hurt Mycroft's shoulder."

Lestrade kissed her cheek. "If he does, Mycroft will think it worth it just to have you home. You _are_ home?" he added with a trace of anxiety.

"Of course we are. If he'll have us back," Annie added, a slight wobble in her voice by this time.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Mycroft, his voice thickened with emotion as he reached for her with his good arm.

Lestrade secured the front door and, looking very pleased with himself, left the three of them to their reunion.

Lestrade gave his dessert spoon one final lick, having eaten far too much of the treacle tart Annie had made for him, while Mycroft neatly finished his crème brûlée.

Len brought the coffee to the table, then handed Lestrade an envelope. "It's a cheque for the money you wired us for the flights. Sherlock rang a few hours after we'd spoken to you. He paid for everything - even arranged cars to take us to and from the airport," he added with a trace of disbelief, because concern for the comfort of others wasn't one of Sherlock's predominant characteristics.

"Of course, it was two in the morning when he rang, but you can't have everything," added Annie as she bent to kiss the top of Mycroft's head before setting down a platter of cheeses and homemade savoury biscuits.

"What on earth did you say to Sherlock?" Mycroft murmured to Lestrade, as he helped himself to some Stinking Bishop cheese to go withe the pear he had selected. "I'd wondered what he wanted the other ten thousand for."

"He does have a better nature. Just hides it well," evaded Lestrade.

As the meal wound its leisurely way to an end the atmosphere around the table was as relaxed as if the schism had never occurred.

When Mycroft had started to explain - but not to excuse himself, because that wasn't his way - Len had smiled and shaken his head.

"No need. Greg told us everything when he called. I just wish we'd been here for you."

Annie blew her nose hard and glared at anyone stupid enough to believe she was having a sentimental moment. "It's just as well Greg explained, because neither of us could make head or tail of what Sherlock was saying."

"Except that he claimed it was all his fault," added Len.

"He's such a drama queen," said Mycroft fondly.

Lestrade almost snorted coffee down his nose, but had the sense not to tell Mycroft what he found so amusing.

Lestrade left Mycroft and Len bonding while he helped Annie in the kitchen.

"What happened to that last piece of treacle tart?" she enquired, as she put the leftovers in the fridge.

"I ate it," admitted Lestrade without shame.

"You'll be too hyped up on sugar to sleep," she said indulgently, before her expression changed. "Is Mycroft really all right? He looks terrible."

"He's doing great. Truly. And trust me, he looks far better than he did last week. He'll be off work until after his birthday."

"Thank goodness for that."

"It's wonderful to have you back."

Annie gave an unimpressed snort. "Don't think you'll be getting treacle tart every night."

"Just as well, or I'd be the size of a house."

"It's wonderful to be home, but I'll need to fly back in a few weeks. Becky's set on returning to England - there are far too many unhappy memories for her in Australia - but she'll need help with the arrangements, and with the children on the flight. Then she needs somewhere to live over here, and she can't afford London prices."

"Would you do me a favour?" said Lestrade abruptly, when Annie had to pause to take breath.

Arrested, Annie looked up, "Of course, love."

"Let Mycroft buy her a house in London. And pay for decent schools and send people over who will organise everything for your sister."

"And he can't talk for himself because - "

"He's only just got you back. He won't risk saying or doing anything that might jeopardise that. And he'd love to do it for you," coaxed Lestrade. "You know he would."

"We've never sponged off him and we not about to start."

"Annie... You know how much he enjoys doing things for the people he loves."

"Oh, give over. We'll see. I'd rather not leave so soon after getting home," she admitted. "That Peter who helped us when we first went over after Becky's accident was a God-send, I must admit. And it'd be grand having Becky close enough to be able to help her out, until she gets herself sorted."

Lestrade nodded encouragingly as Annie talked herself into agreeing.

After seeing Annie the short walk home, Lestrade wandered upstairs to see what had become of Mycroft and found him in his dressing room with Len, who was holding up a shirt on a hanger. When Len noticed Lestrade his expression spoke volumes.

"Who's been doing the ironing while I've been away?"

"Me, as of a few days ago."

"Ah."

"I can iron," said Lestrade with a trace of indignation.

"No, you can't. If it's all the same to you, I'll be seeing to your clothes as well as Mycroft's. Far easier in the long run," Len added firmly.

Lestrade caught Mycroft's slightly anxious expression and gave in with a good grace.

Len gave a satisfied grin. "I could take over helping Mycroft shower and shave in the mornings if you like."

"Not a chance," said Lestrade. "Highlight of my day, that is. Besides, I don't think you'll have time, if you agree to my suggestion."

"You're plotting something," said Len, with the conviction of a man who'd had the care of the two Holmes brothers.

"While Mycroft and I were apart I did some labouring for a charity that renovates houses for the homeless. They're crying out for skilled craftsmen who are willing to help, both with the renovating and training of the unskilled. I wondered if it was something you might be interested in."

Before Len left for home that night he had committed himself to working twenty hours a week at the project.

Mycroft waited until Lestrade had secured the front door before easing him back against it. He began to kiss him with his usual attention to detail.

"Your shoulder," mumbled Lestrade.

"I'm not proposing to use my shoulder," Mycroft assured him.

WEDNESDAY, 5th OCTOBER

"It isn't necessary for us to go through the Central Hall," Mycroft pointed out, as Lestrade headed up the flowing stairs that led to the front entrance of the Natural History Museum.

"I know. But I like to say hello to Dippy," Lestrade explained.

Mycroft gave the faintest of sighs. "Inevitably."

His expression rapt, Lestrade didn't notice, all his attention on the replica, as if seeing it for the first time.

Time passed. But as Mycroft was getting almost as much pleasure from watching Lestrade, as Lestrade was studying Dippy, his patience wasn't strained.

"It's a pity our hall isn't wider, he'd look fantastic there," mused Lestrade, finally turning away.

"Yes, if only it was big enough to hold an eight-five foot replica of a Diplodocus." As they headed for the Dinosaur Gallery Mycroft gave Lestrade a look of indulgent affection. "You really enjoy by-passing the queue, don't you?"

"After all the hours I've spent queuing over the years, you bet I do. It never occurred to me to buy a membership. You're a glutton for punishment."

"I must be," agreed Mycroft, tucking his good arm into the crook of Lestrade's.

"So, Dippy...how many bones are there in the skeleton?"

Mycroft gave him a patient look. "I don't know why you persevere with the fiction that I know more about dinosaurs than you. Two hundred and ninety two. You've told me, several times."

Lestrade gave an unrepentant grin. "I know. But I like listening to your voice."

"Don't tell him that. We'll never get him to shut up," said a familiar voice from behind them.

Mycroft and Lestrade turned as one.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft without enthusiasm.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop," added Lestrade, brusque because he felt self-conscious. Not that he had been saying anything embarrassing, but it had been personal, and not for Sherlock to trample over with his size eleven feet.

"Mycroft may have mentioned it once or twice," said Sherlock airily.

"What brings you to the National History Museum?" asked Mycroft. "I thought you and John were going abroad?"

"We are. But not until John has finished his stint as a locum. He insisted," Sherlock added sulkily. "I'm here to meet a man about some bat bones. Are you working?" he added to Lestrade with would-be casualness.

Lestrade's face lost all trace of expression. "No. I'm suspended, remember?"

"No. I suppose I must have deleted the information. Your suspension is highly inconvenient. But if that's the case, you're no good to me," Sherlock added testily. "Mycroft." And he was gone, striding through the crowd eddying around.

Mycroft glanced at Lestrade's downbent head.

"It's fine," said Lestrade, as if he had spoken. "Come on, you can choose what we look at today."

"Another time. Meanwhile, the dinosaurs await us."

"You talked me into it. But just for a couple of hours. Then you can take me to lunch."

By the time they returned home Lestrade was as relaxed as Mycroft could have wished, despite his frustration at knowing he could get Lestrade reinstated with one phone call.

They settled in the family room, talking easily, until Lestrade became aware of Mycroft's slight preoccupation.

"Go on," he said tolerantly, "listen to the news. You know you want to."

Mycroft didn't waste time denying it. "If you're sure," he murmured, the remote control already in his useable hand.

Lestrade tuned out the sound of the Prime Minister's voice to such good effect that the rest of the news passed him by, until the last item - a fluff piece about Sherlock Holmes.

" - fail to understand why an officer of D. I. Lestrade's calibre should have been suspended at all - let alone for so long. His solve rate is one of the highest in the Met. That, together with his integrity, is the reason I was so anxious to work with him."

Sherlock's image vanished from the screen as Mycroft switched off the television.

"Well, that's that," said Lestrade dully into the silence. "If it wasn't over before, my career is well and truly fucked now."

"What was he thinking," Mycroft murmured, before he ventured a glance at Lestrade, whose stony-faced control told him all he needed to know.

"I think it was his idea of helping," said Lestrade, trying to be fair. "He's never grasped the mentality of senior officers, let alone the IPCC."

Mycroft's BlackBerry began to vibrate on the arm of the sofa: he ignored it.

"It might be important," said Lestrade. "Take the call. I'm fine."

"You haven't asked if I was responsible for that." Mycroft nodded towards the television screen.

"I don't need to. You would have handled it with a couple of phone calls - possibly some discreet blackmail. It's fine. It isn't as if I really expected to get my job back. Take the call," Lestrade repeated gently.

"Can't you control that bloody brother of yours?" demanded Edith Carson by way of greeting.

"I'm putting you on loudspeaker," said Mycroft. "Gregory is with me."

"So I assumed. Greg, I'm sorry. The IPCC were going to announce your reinstatement - at the rank of DCI - tomorrow morning. Now if they do it will look as if they're pandering to Sherlock. You can imagine the publicity."

"I've a rough idea," said Lestrade dryly. "It's fine. Anyway, I've no intention of working while Mycroft is on sick-leave. I'll leave you to chat with him. I'm just off out to get a couple of things."

He handed the phone to Mycroft. "I won't be long. Don't look so worried. I'm not planning to see Sherlock, let alone beat him up again." But his flippancy was forced, his expression strained, before he left the room.

"I'm truly sorry," said Edith. "Shouldn't you be going with him?"

"Ah, you heard. Not right now. He needs time. To mourn. Then I'll take him out of London for a holiday."

"What about your physiotherapy?"

"Gregory can help, if necessary."

"Where will you go?"

"Somewhere with plenty of private roads where an Aston Martin can be driven very fast. Bonus points if its close to the Jurassic Coast."

"I'll get Balasha to organise it for you," said Edith, before she rang off.

Mycroft stared at his BlackBerry in disbelief, wondering just when Gregory had managed to win over Edith Carson.

As good as his word, Lestrade was back in under forty minutes, smelling strongly of cigarette smoke.

"I thought we were giving up," said Mycroft mildly, hoping his relief that Gregory had come back to him wasn't apparent.

"We are. Only... Bugger it. We are." Before Mycroft could help himself from the packet Lestrade crushed it and tossed it into the waste bin in the kitchen. "Let's go to bed."

Under the shower, Lestrade wordlessly hugged Mycroft, his face hidden as water pounded down over them.

Just before they turned into prunes Lestrade drew away a little, holding his face up to the water as if trying to wash away his sense of loss.

Aware that Lestrade needed some time to regroup, Mycroft left the cubicle and began to dry himself, clumsy because he could use only one hand and his injured shoulder was aching fiercely. He felt something at a loss, wishing he could be certain of the best thing to do.

As if sensing his uncertainty Lestrade tweaked away the towel. "You look like a drowned rat. Here, let me."

Mycroft took the line of least resistance and stood passive under the attention. He had expected nothing more than cursory drying but Lestrade took his usual care.

"At least there's no more glass in your skin," he said with satisfaction, "and your scar is coming on a treat. Ignore my hissy fit of earlier. It was nothing to do with you. Just - It would be such a novelty if the top brass actually supported their officers. A twenty year plus career and a good reputation means nothing to them. Still, a DCI..." added Lestrade, crouching down to dry between Mycroft's toes. "If I get the right inspector I could off-load a good three-quarters of the paperwork. Plus the rank gives me a legitimate reason to take an active role in any investigation.

"Thanks for not 'fixing' this with one phone call," he added, as he helped Mycroft into his dressing-gown.

"Even I'm capable of learning eventually. Though I won't pretend it's easy," Mycroft added wryly.

Lestrade gave him an affectionate pat. "I bet. I'm hungry. I think we missed a meal somewhere along the line. Though I don't fancy a takeaway."

"How about cheese on toast? And whatever Annie has left in the fridge? I heard rumour of an apple and blackberry crumble."

"Sold," said Lestrade.

Because Mycroft was obviously in some discomfort, Lestrade carried their haul up to their room; snuggling up in bed made it easier to talk.

"One thought did occur to me regarding your eventual reinstatement," said Mycroft, resigned to Lestrade cutting his toast into fingers for him. "It would be ease itself to leak the fact that rather than being suspended, you were actually acting as a consultant for the security services. It would automatically restore your reputation possibly even enhance it. Your top brass save face _ and then there's the bonus that Sherlock will look naive and out of the loop," he added with satisfaction.

"Ah, brotherly love... He'll be really pissed."

"Won't he just." Mycroft's look of satisfaction faded when he saw that Lestrade had stolen the last slice of toast from his plate.

"I'll save you half," Lestrade promised indistinctly.

"You'd better."

"It's a brilliant plan," Lestrade said. "Not least because the top brass won't actually be certain that I wasn't working for the secret squirrels. You don't mind the security service looking slack because of the leak?"

"Leaks have come in handy a number of times - in fact, they're rarely leaks at all."

Because Lestrade's eyes had regained their sparkle Mycroft magnanimously allowed him to finish the toast, while he made inroads on the crumble.

SATURDAY, 8TH OCTOBER

Lestrade stood at the front door, waving off Annie and Mycroft as they went off to find a suitable house for Annie's sister. He wished he could have gone with them, not least because, ridiculous as it sounded, he was going to miss Mycroft. But this would give Mycroft and Annie a chance to reassure themselves that nothing had been lost in the relationship that was so important to them both.

He turned from closing the front door to see Len approaching. "You need anything?" Lestrade asked, having assumed Len would be happily putting Mycroft's dressing room back in order.

"Just you. While Annie and Mycroft are busy I thought you and I could go through your clothes." It wasn't a question. "Once I understand what you like, I can get busy."

Lestrade sighed but gave himself up to his fate without a struggle, aware that Mycroft would never appreciate the measure of his sacrifice. But it had to be admitted, he wouldn't miss doing the ironing.

After a day in which Lestrade agreed to everything Len suggested, Annie and Mycroft returned home, both looking very pleased with themselves. He wasn't wholly amazed to learn that a six bedroom house in Mortlake had been found, and the children enrolled at age appropriate schools, subject to their mother's approval.

MONDAY, 10th OCTOBER

Lestrade started awake, his heart racing and his skin clammy with sweat. In his mind's eye he could still see Mycroft tumbling into the abyss and himself just too late to save him. There was nothing new about anxiety dreams - as much as anything they were a legacy from his childhood - but this had basis in fact, reinforcing how close he had come to losing Mycroft.

He wiped an unsteady hand over his face and concentrated on controlling his breathing. It was a while before he realised Mycroft wasn't asleep.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," he muttered, feeling naked and ashamed.

"It's fine."

Lestrade left the bed, pulling on a dressing_gown because of the chill to his over-heated skin. "I'm going to make some tea. Would you like one?"

"Please."

Lestrade flicked on the light, squinting in the brightness; it was a moment before he noticed Mycroft's reddened cheek.

"Shit," he groaned.

"It wasn't your fault," Mycroft said instantly. "I should have known better than to lean over you while you're having a nightmare."

"Even so David will never believe I've done it again. I'll have to..." Lestrade trailed off into silence. "I forgot," he added despondently. "Bugger."

"Bugger," agreed Mycroft, his voice equally flat. "But David would believe in your innocence on this occasion, even if he pretended otherwise the better to enjoy your embarrassment."

Once downstairs, Mycroft pottered around making preparations for his own tea, thenLestrade's.

"I didn't realise how early it is," said Lestrade, with a rueful look at the kitchen clock.

"We can always go back to sleep later, if we want. How would you feel about some buttered toast?"

"Enthusiastic," admitted Lestrade, heading for the bread bin.

"One of life's simple pleasures," mused Mycroft, as he unselfconsciously licked his buttery fingers.

"So's this," said Lestrade. "You and me, I mean. It was the best thing in the world, coming home to you the other evening."

Mycroft stared at him as he absorbed what he was being told. And when he smiled it was so full of love that Lestrade's unwary heart turned over.

THURSDAY, 13th OCTOBER

To Mycroft's relief he was given the all-clear to leave off his hand splint and to remove the sling, although he had been warned to take great care in using that arm.

"Bloody brilliant," said Lestrade, beaming at him. "To celebrate, what do say to another tour of the noisiest building sites I can find?"

"It will be the highlight of my day," Mycroft assured him. "Though I confess, it is helping. I'm coping better with unexpected loud noises - or at least improving my ability to control my response to them. I'm sleeping better too."

"Excellent," said Lestrade with satisfaction, not least at this further proof that, little by little, Mycroft was lowering his guards, his emotions less edited as he tried to give himself fully to their partnership. It had taken Lestrade a while to appreciate how often Mycroft had camouflaged his real feelings. There again, by his own admission Mycroft's only attempt at an intimate relationship with a partner had been several decades ago.

"Perhaps we could follow that with a trip to the gun range. Both of us could use the practice - some of us more than others," Mycroft added with pointed emphasis.

"But - "

"A DCI can hardly go round carrying a knife."

"Ah. Moneypenny told you."

"I am a trained observer," Mycroft reminded him, looking pained.

"And I'm a rotten shot."

"Hence the gun range."

Lestrade gave way after some muttered grumbles, which Mycroft heard unmoved.

His own practice completed, Mycroft stood at the back of the firing range, cans in place, watching Lestrade practice. He was improving, although not to the point where he should ever fire a weapon in a crowded public place. As he sensed he was under surveillance, Mycroft glanced to his side, saw Balasha at the entrance to the range and strolled over to her, removing the protective ear cans.

"This is an unexpected pleasure."

While the tone was pleasant, she knew him too well to take it at face value. "Dame Edith knows I wanted a word with you."

"The alternative never occurred to me. It's good to know you can spare the time."

"The fact we've finally rounded up the last of Moriarty's people helped. Which is, indirectly, why I needed to speak with you. As you suggested, I put Heather in charge of the investigation of evidence tampering at the Police Archive. The good news is that it seems to be limited to the case featuring the Roman family."

"They can't possibly have checked every case in so little time."

"Random sampling only at present. But promising. Because of all the anomalies in the Roman case, it occurred to Heather to check the physical evidence, which, as you're aware, is stored in ancillary warehouses."

Mycroft's expression sharpened. "She's found the physical evidence for the Roman murders? I thought it lost."

"Mis-shelved. Human incompetence several decades ago rather than recent conspiracy. As you can imagine, there's a great deal of material - the contents of the entire flat, in fact. Heather would like your permission to reconstruct the murder scene and set our forensic people loose."

"Why are you mentioning this to me and not Edith?"

"Cost. It would be _very_ expensive. Our budget..."

"And you thought I would pay for it. You're quite correct. I'd like to know _exactly_ what went on in that flat - and why someone felt the need to hide it."

"So would Heather. While involved in this investigation, she's broadened the scope to known associates of the Romans, their neighbours, the neighbourhood..."

"Which Edith no doubt will expect me to pay for," said Mycroft with resignation. "Heather could use a nice little war to keep her fully occupied. Of course I'll pay - on condition that you sort it out with Accounting." He gave a bland smile at her look of dismay. "That's settled then." About to return to watching Lestrade, he paused when she said:

"Sir? You don't want a briefing?"

"I'm on sick-leave," he reminded her, "and just beginning to enjoy it. Besides, if I were needed, you or Edith would have called. I'm fine," he added, recognising the trace of doubt on her face. "Better than fine, in fact."

Balasha followed the direction of his gaze, gave an approving beam and left before he could comment further.

Chamber emptied, Lestrade called up the target before swinging round to where Mycroft was propped against the wall, gesturing for him to slide down the ear protectors.

"I got a bull's eye!"

"You jumped when your protectors slipped off."

Lestrade's expression dropped. "You saw that?"

Eyebrows raised, Mycroft's hint of a smile grew.

"Tosser," said Lestrade without heat. "I hoped you hadn't noticed. "I'll just have to keep at it."

"There's no need. I have security. And I'm always armed."

"Yeah. And if you're attacked when I'm with you you'll be too busy keeping me alive to think of yourself."

Mycroft gave him a look of consternation. "That hadn't occurred to me."

"I thought it might not have."

"Smugness is not an endearing trait," pointed out Mycroft.

"If I had a pound for every time I'd told you that."

"Call it a day. I'm hungry. How about lunch and a look round Tate Modern? You said you've never been."

"Sounds like a plan. Call up the boy wonder. Why isn't Ralph here, guarding your back?" Lestrade thought to ask, his expression hardening.

"I hardly need security when I'm amongst my own people."

"There isn't a soul in sight."

"No. For some reason having the head of British security around puts people off their aim."

"That must be what did it for me," said Lestrade promptly.

Mycroft just gave him an indulgent look and steered him off to lunch.

It was gone midnight before they got to bed. Lestrade wasn't sure if Mycroft's subdued manner was because he'd overdone it, indigestion from the curry, or some other reason.

"What's up?" he asked twenty minutes later, when neither of them were any closer to sleep.

"Nothing."

"Mycroft..."

"It's - "

"If you say 'nothing' again..."

Mycroft gave a barely audible sigh. "Today has been such a happy day. Like all the days since you came back to me. I feel so lucky. That you're willing to give me a second chance."

Silenced for a moment, Lestrade kissed the curve of Mycroft's shoulder. "You daft bugger. I had no alternative. I love you."

"Yes, and that's the wonder of it."

"Tosser," said Lestrade fondly.

"I'm serious. I know I can't be easy to live with. When you left..." This time Mycroft's sigh was louder, his voice flatter. "Happiness has never featured large in my life until I met you. I didn't appreciate the difference it's loss - the loss of you - would make to me. Without you in my life I felt as if I was turning into a ghost," he confessed, made brave by the darkness and Lestrade's thumb, which was describing slow, soothing circles on the back of his hand. "I felt as if anything that was of worth in me was dissolving like mist in the wind."

"Sorry 'bout that," mumbled Lestrade. "I told you I shouldn't have had that curry."

"What?" Melancholy banished, Mycroft pushed himself up on one elbow to peer at him.

"Did I miss something? I must have dozed off."

"Nothing of importance. But _do not_ \- and I can't emphasise this enough - fart in bed," Mycroft commanded.

Satisfied that he had jolted Mycroft out of it, Lestrade gave a grin, if not as private as he had assumed.

"Were you playing me just now?" demanded Mycroft, mildly outraged that he had fallen for it.

"Only a little. No wallowing in the past allowed, remember?"

Before Mycroft could reply Lestrade was kissing him, his tongue doing lovely things in his mouth as a warm hand curved around his cock, owning it.

Lestrade rubbed a little more, just to watch Mycroft's face go vague and glazed with pleasure, before he reached for the lubricant. He took his time readying them both, not least because this would be the first time since Mycroft had been injured. As he eased into Mycroft he paused repeatedly to ask 'Is you shoulder okay?' until, for the first time in their relationship, Mycroft yelled at him.

The strain of waiting apparent behind his grin, Lestrade sank the rest of the way home in one blissful stroke.

If Mycroft remembered his injured shoulder at any point after that it wasn't apparent.

"My apologies," gasped Mycroft, forearm over his eyes as he tried to collect himself.

"Don't be daft. It's only me here." Lestrade eased closer, tucking himself around Mycroft. "It's okay. I've got you."

His world back in full focus and glorious technicolour, Mycroft laced his fingers with Lestrade's. "Yes," he said, with obvious satisfaction.

 He eased into sleep, aware of Lestrade's mouth curved into a smile against the back of his neck.

END

Part 17 to follow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay in posting. Unexpected health issues rather ate up the last year but I'm hoping normal service has been restored.


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